Questionable
by Silver Tongued Wonder
Summary: Skye Reese is your average Capitol teenager. She lives a life of ease in her glorious estate. But when she goes on a fieldtrip to visit the old arenas, she faces love, pain, & adventure, and discovers that her lifestyle is implausibly questionable.
1. Up

This is the day I've been waiting for all year.

When I wake, I can barely contain my excitement. I throw my glossy bedcovers off to the side and jump out of my warm bed, scurrying over to my large vanity dresser. It's my favorite piece of furniture in the entire house. The outline of the huge mirror is studded with bright light bulbs that illuminate my dressing area, the light from it glinting off my gleeful golden eyes. I smile at myself at the mirror for a while, and I can't help but admire my teeth that are about as clean as the whites of my eyeballs. Unlike most of the Capitol people, mine are not synthetic, nor have they received any treatment more advanced than toothbrushing.

After a while of standing around, I finally resolve to take a shower. My bathroom is a sultry maroon inlaid with gold, and beauty jumps off of the glamorous walls. I step into the shower and punch a button that releases my favorite butterscotch aroma. I bask in the scent for a while, and then I press a button that dries me up and removes the excess moisture from my chocolate brown hair.

When I step out of the bath, I quickly change into a simple dark brown shirt that matches my hair, and then some jeans. I live in the Capitol, yes, but I don't think that means I should ride along with their hideous, inhuman trends. I think I may be the only one in my school that hasn't had any alterations. To some people, I'm not Capitol at all. I don't even have the accent, and nor does everyone else in my family. The only trace of Capitol I have on me is a golden tattoo on my right arm. The intricate pattern of a tattoo extends from right under my elbow and down to my wrist. The ink of the design is so translucent, so sheer that you can't notice it until you stand at least four feet away from me.

I'm just putting on a solid gold band around my head when I hear my father's voice buzzing through the built-in intercom. "Skye, It's time to get going," he says. "You wouldn't want to be late for your very first visit to the Hunger Games arenas!"

I rush over to the wall and hold the speaking button down as I talk into the microphone. "Coming," I say, and quickly flit off to put on my brown leather shoes. In no time at all, I'm downstairs and out the door, jumping into our sleek black car.

Inside, there is my older brother, Levi, in tawny trousers, a fitted black shirt, and black boots. Because everything he has on him—including his chocolate hair that is identical to mine—is dark, his exuberant, anxious gold eyes are brought out more strikingly.

I chuckle. "What are you wearing?"

He shrugs. "I thought since we were going into the arena for about a month for the fieldtrip slash vacation, I might as well look the part." Then he grins. "So what about it? Do I look viciously able to kill?"

"I'd say you look viciously desperate," I laugh out loud, and my father and mother seated at the front of the car glance at us and laugh, too.

We all know how much Levi adores the Games. He'd volunteer for a spot in it for sure, but it's too bad Capitol people can't join them. Watching the Games like a hawk, however, sates him to at least some extent. His eyes are practically glued onto the television screen whenever it's in season. A month ago, when the Games for the year started, he spent so much money sponsoring a brutal boy from District 4. The boy won, fortunately. It's the first time Levi has ever sponsored a tribute that won, because it's usually my sense of judgment that strikes gold. I've sponsored about four people—all victors of their Games—and that in itself is a reason enough for Levi to hate me. But, for some strange reason, he's a decent brother to me. He might even love me.

My father starts the car and then it thunders away at lightning speed. Within a few minutes, we're at the Training Center of the city, where my schoolmates and I will be gathering before we leave for the arena. Every year, the junior and senior students of our school head off to one of the old arenas, where we will stay there for one month, vacationing. I've only just started my junior year, which is why it's my first time. Levi, however, has already gone last year, but that doesn't stop him from being deliriously energized. You'd think he'd have some dignity, what with his being a senior.

"Have fun and take care!" Mother calls out to us when we've entered the Training Center. Levi and I wave back at her until the mechanical doors slide close and cut us off. When I turn around to take in the entire lobby, I see that a couple of kids from my grade and Levi's grade are huddled around with their groups, waiting for our attendants to arrive so we can finally kick off the trip.

"Excited?" Levi asks me, his eyes travelling all around the area. I know he must be in awe, because this place is where all the tributes arrive every year. For a while, he walks around and nods or waves in acknowledgment to some of his friends. I trail about a foot behind him. Since my best friend, Lina Trouks, decided not to come for the fieldtrip, I'm left to my brother and his friends' company. A fact that doesn't really bother me, but I wouldn't mind having a girl pal to talk to, either. And I don't have that many girl pals. Actually, none at all, if you don't count Lina. It's just that I don't find most of the girls nice here.

I smile. "Yes, sort of. Are you? It's your second year on the fieldtrip. Must be a little dull for you, now, huh?" I wasn't attempting dry humor, but somehow the way it came out implied it.

He glances back at me momentarily, and I catch that his mouth has twitched up in a smirk. "Not exactly," he says, and there's that trace of humor in his voice. "See, when you're a junior, you don't have a say at the arena you'll be visiting. But when you're a senior like me, you get to have a vote. The attendants will give you a choice between four arenas, and the arena with the most votes is where we go for the fieldtrip."

Oh, well, I didn't know that. But that isn't surprising, because everyone knows the Capitol works at a need-to-know basis. In other words, if you don't need to know it, no one tells you. "Okay, so which arena are we visiting this year?"

"The one I voted for," says Levi proudly. "Arena number fifty."

"Which one is that?"

"The one from Haymitch Abernathy's Games."

My jaw instantly drops at that statement. I remember Haymitch Abernathy's Games clearly. His arena had to be the most beautiful there is and has been ever since. No arena has topped it yet. "That's awesome, I can't wait to get there," I say, and I'm not lying. The Fiftieth Hunger Games is one of my favorites.

Levi stops dead in his tracks and turns to face me, grinning. "Yes, and I know you're going to have a good time. Haymitch Abernathy is your favorite victor, correct?" I nod my assent. It's true. I've been a fan of Haymitch's since he went on television. I was up to my eyeballs with debt during his Games, because I kept borrowing money from everyone so I could sponsor him. He was just an exciting tribute that proved to be a pretty smart one, too, considering how he won. "Well, that's just exciting for you. Did I tell you the victor of the year of the arena we're visiting is going to be there?" asks Levi.

"What?" I gape at him. "Are you serious?"

"Yes. And that's why I voted for this arena," he says. "Because I knew you'd have a good time at it, and I knew you'd kill to meet Haymitch Abernathy."

The corners of my mouth tilt upward. "Thanks, Levi. That's really—" I cut myself off when I see our attendant, Kait Desser, walk out from the elevator and into the lobby. Levi glances backward, following my gaze, and sees her as well. She's calling everyone to the center, and Levi and I and the other students gather together in a loose circle around her.

"Good morning, everyone!" she greets us exuberantly. "It's a beautiful day, and I'm sure you can barely wait to head to the arena now." Everyone responds with howls and cheering. "But before we go," she continues. "I need to give everyone instruction. Listen closely and listen well. We will be travelling via hovercraft. Travelling time is thirty minutes. All twenty four students will be divided into two groups, and according to their groups, they will board the hovercrafts. When we get there, don't stray too far away yet, because we will give you your room assignments and then, after getting settled in, you will be allowed to roam around all you want. Does that sound good?" she urges us with a wink.

Hollering erupts, and it soon diminishes to excited, anxious chatter as we all board the elevators and shoot up past all the district floors. I'm a little stunned still, and I can't believe that we're actually riding _the _elevator that all the other tributes have ridden before. That Haymitch Abernathy himself has ridden.

The elevator is quick and it takes only a while for us to get to the roof. Then the doors slide apart and we stream out of the cubicles. The view from the rooftop is magnificent, and I find myself leaning against the railings as we wait for our hovercraft to arrive. From way up here, I can spot our large mall. I even see our school, and, if I squint hard enough, I can eye our mansion.

For some strange reason, I think about the tributes. Not the ones still alive. The dead ones. The ones who've died to entertain us. Okay, this kind of thinking is not the norm for us that live in the Capitol. And, even though it's terrible to admit it, I don't feel a pang of guilt when I watch the Games. To me, these people are just pieces. Almost like the chess pieces on a chess board. When they're gone, they're gone. But I start thinking, just for a moment, about what life must be—or what it must have been—for them. Starved to near death, and then forced to kill or be killed for our pleasure. Our lives must be dull compared to theirs.

Just then, a hovercraft surfaces out of nowhere. I'm not new to these hovercrafts; I've seen millions, because my father works at a company that specializes on receiving exports from District 3, the engineering district. Whenever I visit his office or tag along with him when he works, I get to see the latest of all gadgets and gizmos. The receiving company is never short of hovercrafts. But even though I've seen a lot of them, I've only ridden them four times. This ride today will make five.

Kait Desser calls out the people in the first group, who will be riding this hovercraft. My name is the first to be bade. She continues, reading the names of relatively nice kids from my grade and Levi's grade. Said relatively nice kids are considered losers at school, myself included, but who cares. They're the closest things to friends I'll get. And I'm thinking that it's good none of the snobby and stuck-up girls are in my group, until Tania Sinclair's name emerges.

Tania Sinclair is the epitome of stuck-up girls. Her dead straight hair stops at her shoulders with inhumanly equal length, her skin is pale as a sheet, dyed white. Even her lips are pale. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought her a corpse at first sight. Diamonds are encrusted in the place of her eyebrows, and her irises have been surgically altered to match the electric blue color of her hair. Right now, she's sporting a full, shiny black body suit, the soles of which have built in six-inch heels. She wears matching black gloves that have holes at the ends for where her manicured, also electric blue nails pop out.

Tania glares at Kait, her eyes occasionally darting toward me and the rest of the group. "You mean I have to ride with them?" she asks in her full-on accent, her voice rising an octave. She waves a hand over to her group of perpetual followers, who are also dressed in different colors of full-body leotards. "Can't you group me with the others?"

Kait looks irritated, but she keeps composure. "I'm sorry, Ms. Sinclair, but unless anyone from group two is interested in exchanging with—"

I'm just thinking about how it's impossible anyone from the second group will exchange with her, because the ones in Group Two seem to be the unspoken "cool crowd," my brother included, since he's a senior. But then I'm proved wrong when Abel Harter, an exceptionally noted boy from my grade, interrupts Kait with a raised hand. "I'd like to exchange with her, Ms. Desser."

Abel Harter. I can't say I've never noticed him before, because truth be told, he's pretty hard to ignore. Like myself, he has no alterations. But unlike myself, he's immensely good-looking. Blessed with more-than-amazing ocean blue eyes and glorious hazel hair, you don't have to think very hard of reasons why he's so popular. You do, however, have to think beyond your wits to find reasons why he would be willing ride in S.S. Loser Craft with the rest of us. As he comes to stand beside me and the group, I feel somewhat inferior. Not only is he about a foot taller than me, but he's got prettier hair, too. Last year, when the renowned Finnick Odair won the Games, no one in my school was drooling over him. They were too busy salivating over Abel Harter.

Kait looks surprised, but nonetheless nods, and Tania squeals as she plunges back into her cluster. Though a couple of girls in the group looked a little bitter as they realized they wouldn't have a chance at flirting with Abel today. "Okay, Mr. Harter, if that's what you want," Kait says, and then tells us to board the hovercraft.

Twelve ladders cascade down from the craft, one for each of us, and as I reach for one particular ladder, Abel's hand collides with mine. I duck in embarrassment when I realize that he wanted that one, and I make my way to the next ladder, but Abel stops me. "You can take this one, Skye," he reassures me, and I think it's the first time he's ever addressed me. It didn't cross my mind that he knew my name. Maybe he's spoken to my brother before, who belongs in the same crowd as him.

I mumble my thanks and grab onto the ladder, and immediately, it's as if I'm a statue. Some sort of current freezes me on the spot as the ladder retracts and pulls me up, up, and away.


	2. Explosion

When I'm finally inside the hovercraft, the current releases me, and I let out a relieved sigh. I've ridden these things before, but usually, the hovercraft lands first and lets me walk into it like a normal person, not scare me to death by shocking my nerves dead. But in any case, I'm safe now, and that's the important part.

The moment I untangle myself from the ladder, I hurry over to the farthest, most solitary corner of the craft. I walk into room after room, and I'm thinking about how amazingly large this hovercraft is. The others that I've been on don't have more than two separate chambers, and one of them is usually the cockpit.

At the sixth chamber, I stop and decide that this is the room that I want to stay at. It's pleasantly dim, with thick scarlet curtains draped over the huge glass windows. Walking across the springy red carpet, I plump down onto a soft, bouncy couch that sits right beside the door that leads to the next room. There's a lamp beside the couch that glows a warm yellow color. The room is perfect, silent, and secluded, and it speaks of me quite well. Maybe, if I'm lucky, no one will bother me for the duration of the flight to the arena. Call me antisocial, but I don't actually want to talk to anyone on this craft, especially not Abel Harter.

I know it can't be nice—or even sane—to be avoiding him when he's been nothing but nice to me for the length of our short-lived conversation, but there's just something about him. Not something bad, that's for sure, because he actually seems like a nice boy. But that's where the problem starts. I've had my fair share of relationships with nice boys, and neither of them ended well. Something tells me that if I begin to welcome Abel Harter, I'll just be drawn to him like I was to the other guys. Okay, maybe I can't know for sure he's a jerk, but who's to say he isn't? I'm thinking ahead, here.

The hovercraft ride is short, and thankfully, nobody comes to bother me except to call me out and tell me that we're landing. We're all at the dispatching lobby, where we first arrived through the ladders, standing around, waiting for some sort of instruction. Through the windows, you can see nothing. It's completely black, and I only guess we're nearing the arena. I let my gaze fall to the floor. I notice little squares on the ground from where the ladders must have fallen out, and I'm instantly hoping that we don't go down through them again, because I'm not too fond of being held still against my will. So what if moving will kill me? If I want to do it, I'll do it.

Suddenly, the room has become eerily silent, and I wonder why nobody's talking. When I lift my head, though, the answer comes in the form of a man. Or should I say amazingly beautiful creature that can't be mortal? _Think straight, Skye, _I command myself, and I tell myself to hold his gaze when he looks at me. I can't crumble down now. I've got to teach myself to be stone if I ever want to survive this world of heartbreak and betrayal, and I guess now is more than a better time to practice. _Deep breath, act normal, act on top of things._

Abel smiles and comes over beside me. "Hi," he says.

"Hello," I say back, but a woman from the crew emerges from one of the chambers, and we both shut up. I'm happy. The woman has chosen the right time to slip in. A simple hello is all I can conjure up right now. A whole conversation with Abel Harter will only make me look hideously stupid.

The woman greets us, asks us if we've had a good flight. We mumble our answers simultaneously, and then she grins pleasantly before giving us instruction on landing. Much to my frustration, we're exiting the hovercraft through the ladders again. She tells us that unboarding the craft will be exactly alike in procedure as boarding it, and she says that when we arrive on the ground, a crew will greet us and take us from there. She thanks us for flying with them, and then she heads back to the door she came out from.

The little squares on the steel floor have slid open, and then a ladder materializes. The hovercraft seems to have stopped moving, simply floating in the air. We all exchange unsure glances, and finally, Rita Lorkerstone, a brave girl from my brother's grade, steps up with a smile and says, "Well, it's now or never." When she says that, she raises her eyebrows, which have been dyed pink to match her long, flowing hair that stops at her hips. Rita is a tall girl, and blessed with so much grace that, when she moves, she resembles water flowing downstream. My brother has had a crush on her since forever.

Before anyone can say anything else, Rita fluxes over to one of the squares, slowly lets her feet catch on the rungs, and then eventually disappears under the surface. In a few seconds, everyone's standing and claiming their own squares. I pick the one in front of me, and Abel takes the one next to it.

For a while, I just stand there, staring at the hole on the ground cut precisely into an equilateral shape. Beneath it is only darkness, and I wonder what has happened to Rita. Wonder if it's really safe down there. I'm vaguely aware that many of my schoolmates have already gone through their holes, but though I'm fully cognizant of the fact I should go, too, I'm stunned and I can't seem to move.

"Need help?" The voice pulls me out of my reverie. I look up only to see Abel. He and I are the only two students left on the hovercraft. He's smiling down at me kindly, and there's no trace of smugness in his voice, or even pleasure at my weakness. Only pure benignity.

Not wanting to be rude—and, okay, maybe I really did need some help—I accept. Abel offers his hand out to me, and I take it. His hand is warm, reassuring, and friendly as he lowers me down and steadies me. The moment I step onto the ladder, it freezes me again and slowly takes me down as my hand delicately slips out of Abel's.

On the ground, it is still as dark as it looked like from the hovercraft. There's excited chatter, voices of people as they curiously prattle about what's going to happen next. Someone touches my shoulder, and I jump, but after taking a whiff of his familiarly pleasant scent that reminds me of pine trees, I realize it's only Abel.

"Skye?" he asks, and I know I'm not mistaken.

"It's me," I assure him. "What's going to happen next?" It's so much easier to talk to him when it's dark and I can't see his face.

"I don't know. I haven't been on this fieldtrip before. But I hear from the seniors that they usually want to surprise us, so they turn all the lights off upon our arrival. They wait until everyone's here and then they flick them on," he says.

And he's right, because from above us, a hovercraft materializes. I know it's a hovercraft because all around the rim of it's bottom, there are lights blinking and a glowing seal of the Capitol in the middle. Twelve squares open from it, light from the dispatching lobby streaming out down at us. In the faint light, I make out the five girls that compose Tania Sinclaire's group. Then some other people and my brother Levi.

The moment I hear the thuds of all their feet reaching the floor, the hovercraft disappears and the lights flash on. It all happens simultaneously, and I'm slightly surprised and blinded by the lights. After a while of blinking, I finally come around and see Kait Desser and a couple of our attendants before us, beaming at us brightly. It takes a second for it all to register, and then a deafening roar comes out from our group. Abel and I are quiet, still taken aback by the lights.

"Welcome, everyone," Kait says, and a hush falls over the group. "For those of you who don't know, we are now currently at the catacombs right beneath the arena itself. This is where we will be staying for the duration of our visit. There are thirty chambers, one for each one of you and for the six of us attendants. Shortly, you will be given a key for your rooms; be certain you don't lose it." Just then, the other attendants sweep in and throw us our keys. They're not actually keys in the literal sense. They're smooth, shiny platinum cards with the room numbers on one side—or, for the tributes that used these catacombs years ago, it was their district numbers—and on the other side is a gender, male or female, and a golden chip that acts as the key code itself. I catch one card and I see the number _12 _on it. I flip it over and see the word _female._ Which means the chamber I will be staying at was Maysilee Donner's, the girl tribute of District 12 for the Fiftieth Hunger Games.

"What did you get?" Abel asks.

"Twelve," I say, flashing my card at him. "You?"

Light glints off of his steel card when he raises it to me. "One," he says. "The female's room." There's a hint of humor in his voice when he adds that last part.

"That's nice," I tell him. "You're staying at Crystal Reprierre's chamber."

He raises both his eyebrows. "Crystal? Is that the name of the girl from District 1? The one who had that last bloody fight with Haymitch Abernathy?"

"Yeah, that's her," I say. I remember her face clearly. Blonde hair, determined green eyes, one of which was plucked out right before her death. Her and Haymitch's fight was the bloodiest in history. In the Capitol, all schools and offices shut down to watch the battle of the century that day. All over the city, televisions were flashing their cruel conflict, and all eyes were set on their every moment. The day the much-awaited battle commenced, everyone was giddy with excitement, myself included. District 12 boy versus District 1 girl. It was a fight of contrasting people, and everyone in the Capitol loved that.

Kait Desser calls our attentions, and then continues with explaining the day's events. "Anyway, everyone should go to their rooms. In the far right corner, you should find a silver plate. Stand on it. I'll see you soon," she says mysteriously. She smirks at us before disappearing into an elevator with the rest of our attendants.

The seniors, of course, knowing what to do already, are the first to leave and look for their rooms. For a while, Levi remains, looking around. When he catches sight of me, his face lights up with relief and then he shuffles over to us.

"Hey," he says to me, but his eyes flicker momentarily in acknowledgment at Abel. "So, we should go to our rooms now. They won't like us to stay around and not obey orders. What room did you two get?"

"Twelve," I tell him.

"One," Abel says at the same time.

He points toward the left hallway. "Twelve is down over there," he says, then he looks over at Abel. "I got One, too. Now, come on, Ms. Desser's going to get mad and cranky when she sees we haven't gone around to find our rooms yet."

And so we go separate ways. I walk the left hallway with a couple of other students and finally catch the door with my number and gender on it. I insert my card into a little gap on the wall, and the mechanical doors slide down. I walk through the thresholds and the door inches its way up again. I retrieve my card from the small ledge of metal on the wall beside the door, slipping it into my pocket as I behold my room.

The interior is beautiful. Maroon, inlaid with gold like my bathroom at home. There's a velvet, comfortable-looking bed on the middle, and a large wardrobe to its right. We were told months ago not to bring luggage with us to this trip, because all we'd ever need will be here, and apparently it's true.

I trudge along the carpet to the far right corner, and sure enough, there's a silver plate. Tentatively, I walk over on it, and immediately, a glass cylinder comes over me. My eyebrows scrunch in confusion, but I know that this must be what will take me up to the arena.

And I'm right. The cylinder rises quickly, and for maybe a quarter of a minute passes as I feel the metal plate pushing me upward. It's pitch black in the cylinder, as pitch black as the catacomb lobby was earlier. But, like the lobby, it doesn't remain black, because suddenly, I'm pushed out of the cylinder and into the open air.

And I almost forget how to breathe. The aroma is unbelievably pleasant. I haven't smelt anything like it before. The sky is a beautiful cerulean blue, puffy clouds spread evenly across it. The golden Cornucopia is stationed in the midst of a gorgeous green meadow, flowers popping their heads through it, that stretches for a long distance. The sun that is high up in the sky shines down on us, and sends the snow glittering from the peak of the mountain in the far east.

My eyes are eating everything up. For a while, I'm living in my own world of perfection and beauty. I know this arena by heart. I'm familiar with the landscape because I paid good attention to the Fiftieth Hunger Games, what with it being the second Quarter Quell and the only one I've ever seen in my entire life. I'm only thinking about Haymitch and Maysilee and Crystal and all the other tributes, when suddenly, my thoughts are interrupted.

And that's when the explosion happens.

* * *

_**AU: **Thanks to everyone that has replied to my story! It's my first time writing fanfiction and I was surprised to see that some people were interested in this. I hope that more will at least consider reading it. So what did you think of the second chapter? Exciting? Romantic? Funny? Interesting? Lame? Let me know! Review! And don't forget to subscribe, too._

_P.S. I won't be writing for the entire week next week. Sorry. I'll be busy by then. But I'll definitely be back on by the week after that._

**YOURS TRULY,  
_THE SILVER TONGUED WONDER_**


	3. Dead

**Author's Note:** Just to clear some things up, the year is the 65th Hunger Games, which occurred (if you paid attention to the first chapter) only about a month ago from this present time of the story. Finnick Odair won last year, Haymitch Abernathy won fifteen years ago. So Haymitch is probably around 32 years old, just in case anyone's wondering.

Without further ado, I present to you the third chapter! (Which is unusually short, because I didn't have a lot of time on my hands and because I was dying, absolutely dying, to update.) The next chapter will be longer, I promise you._  
_

* * *

From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Tania Sinclair's ashen face as she grins and sends a foot over her metal plate, and then I'm thrust backward by a force so impregnable, so inviolable. Amidst the earsplitting, deafening crackle of the explosion, I am vaguely aware of a female high-pitched shriek echo though the entire arena. As I fly, smoke and ashes and burnt soil blocks my vision, and I can understand nothing except that something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

For a while, I am suspended in air, almost in a sort of delicious moment of counterfeit freedom. It's ridiculous, though, because most likely this will be the death of me. Then the breath is knocked out of me as I take impact on the tousled yet hard soil. How far back have I landed? Ten—perhaps eleven—feet? I don't know. And I don't care. I'm wheezing, begging for air, scrounging on the ground as I hope to retrieve sweet oxygen.

Hot tears stream down my cheeks. _Air! _I beg to no particular person. _Air! I need air! _It's my new refrain, my new wish. It's strange, actually, to beg for air. Usually, I would beg my parents for a brand new, all-the-rage cellular unit. Or even my own helicopter, since it would be nice to roam around the city, being able to skip the traffic on the ground in trade for a breezy trip overhead. But air? Really? It's free for all. _But not for me, apparently, _I think. And, as the cloud of dirt and smoke clears away, I realize that it's not for my companions, either. Everyone is sprawled all of the ground, paralyzed just as I am.

Just as I hear frantic footsteps all around me, I regain my breath. But I almost lose it again when Kait Desser's intense voice reverberates through the empty, once beautiful valley that is blanketed with dirt now, not any higher in value than a lot of cow dung. None of Kait's words makes sense. She's just shrieking nonsense, stomping around frantically, and I think she's shaking.

People are coming. People in all-white uniforms that sort of remind me of the patients in those mental hospitals. Peacekeepers, could they be? I've never actually seen one before in real life. At least, not one on duty. Just on television, when they show the activity of the districts or when they air the annual Games. Anyway, the Peacekeepers seem to be muttering something to Kait. Something that outrages her, because she starts thrashing around again, shrieking gibberish.

"Take them away! Take them away!" Kait screams in a voice twenty octaves higher than the norm. "Take them away!" Her voice carries on as she is guided away from us, onto a metal plate than disappears under the ugly dirt.

Out of the corner of my eye, I'm mentally begging Kait to stay. She's the only one we know here, and I don't think I'm comfortable around the Peacekeepers. I mean, in the Capitol, the Peacekeepers are honored. They are an elite group managed and hand-picked by President Snow himself. Each Peacekeeper undergoes an excruciating, humbling training before he passes his test and is sent off for fieldwork in the districts. When they come home from duty, they are greeted with celebrations and parties galore. At home, they are simply harmless Capitol people. But here, where apparently there is no safety, they are not the least bit reassuring. If anything, intimidating.

Much to my biggest fear, a red-headed Peacekeeper walks over beside me and gazes down at me. His stocky build blocks the blinding glare of sunlight, as, for a moment, my eyes zero in on his features, trying to make them out. His face is emotionless, as hard as stone itself. His eyebrows are knit together in a scowl that never leaves his face.

"This will hurt," he says. I don't understand him, but it suddenly all clicks together when he lifts a syringe filled with a sloppy purple liquid. I can feel my eyes widen, my mouth gape about a centimeter. I want to trash around, but I can't. I'm still paralyzed by fear, by the impact, by the explosion.

As the needle penetrates my skin, I immediately come to the conclusion that the Peacekeeper was not kidding around. The pain slices through my entire arm where the needle is, a scream threatening to push its way through my throat. It doens't, however. I can do nothing. I can say nothing. I can only feel the quaggy liquid being shot into my veins, feel it polluting my bloodstream with a cool sensation. And, slowly, my eyelids close and my consciousness withdraws.

The next time I'm conscious again, I wake to see that I have been displaced into a sterile, pearly white room with rounded corners. I'm on a bed, also white, with smooth silk covers pulled up to my stomach. On my right hand, I'm vaguely aware of pinching needles. My eyes run down from my elbow to my hand, to the person sitting along my bedside that's holding my hand gently.

The bright light of the room sends his hazel hair glistening. In his warm hand sits my own, cradled mildly. I notice a large cut across his forehead, and I realize this must be what he carried on from the explosion, which I still do not completely understand. His blue eyes are set on the wall opposite my bed, his eyebrows crumpled together intensely, as if he were trying to figure something out. He remains like that, scowling at the wall, until he finally breaks his stare and shakes his head contritely. What must he be thinking about?

"Abel," I say, thinking I've done enough observing. Though my voice is barely there and it's rough with sleep, he hears me, and turns his attention toward me immediately.

A smile lights up his downcast face as his thumb strokes the back of my hand gingerly. "Hi," he says. His voice is about as hoarse as mine right now. "You've been out for a while. Your brother has been watching out for you all night; I decided to give him a couple of hours of rest." He nods to his right. I glance to his line of head-nodding and find my brother sprawled on a chair, mouth open, eyes closed, and snoring on full-throttle.

"What time is it?" I choke out.

"Three in the morning," he says almost instantly. "The... um, uh... _incident_ happened yesterday afternoon."

Now it's my turn to scowl. "Incident? What—?" I try to search his eyes for some sort of clue, but they're as rock solid as that Peacekeeper's. Abel is silent for the longest time since I've started talking to him yesterday.

He looks at me, his eyes questioning my ability to comprehend what he's about to say. I nod fervently, hoping I can convince him. He hesitates, but then fixes his mind to tell me. He takes a deep breath, and drops his gaze to our intertwined hands.

"Tania Sinclair is dead."


	4. Questionable

**Author's Note:** Hello there! Thanks again for sticking around with me. If you're reading this now, I guess you sort of like this story. Or you could just be bored and browsing around what I have. Either way, I'm glad you're here!

So I updated approximately twenty three hours after the last update I made, which must be a record. It's just that the last chapter was a bit short and lame, and so I thought I'd make up for it with this relatively long post. Now, this chapter might be slightly boring. There's less action in it, and a whole lot more thinking. But I hope you enjoy it in any case.

* * *

_Dead. Dead. Dead. _The word bounces around the inside of my skull like a ball in a pinball machine. It's so unusual, so surreal to me. In the Capitol, the usage of the word often pertains to dead batteries, dead grandparents, or dead goldfish. But Tania Sinclair? Dead? It doesn't make sense. No one in the Capitol dies before they're a hundred years old. That's why they invented the Life Machine. You take a trip to the doctor, pay him an amount of money, step into the Life Machine, come out the other end, and presto. You're good as new. The machine has it's side effects, though, and it's costumers never last longer than a hundred and fifty years, but that's still longer than the natural age that people die.

But Tania Sinclair was nineteen years old. Not even two decades old. She was as youthful as anyone can get. She was desired by most boys at school, envied by the whole lot of schoolgirls. She was the epitome of conjectural beauty. She was the exultant daughter of the renowned plastic surgeon, Doctor Leto Sinclair. She was once alive, but now dead. Dead, dead, dead.

I try to seek Abel's eyes for some sort of sign. A sign that says he's kidding, that Tania Sinclair really is still alive. I stare at his cerulean blue irises, and he stares back at me with a certain pity. No, not pity. Compassion. But for what? I don't know. I haven't actually gotten around to fully comprehending Abel Harter just yet, and it frustrates me to know that I probably may never be able to. He's just such a complex human being, if he is one at all.

"What do you mean, dead?" I manage to say out loud. He may mean dead in a figurative sense. As in, she's dead because she got in a lot of trouble and is being kicked off the fieldtrip right now as we speak. Yes, that definitely sounds more likely. And a lot more likeable, for that fact.

Abel holds my gaze this time. "I mean dead. Really dead." I just stare at him, eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. I don't understand. Or, I don't want to understand, but I know I have to. When he sees this is going nowhere, he sighs and looks down at our hands. He licks his lips for one second, and then gazes back up at me, eyes glassy. "Skye, she's gone. The mines around her metal plate were accidentally reactivated. She stepped off her plate before the sixty seconds were over. She got blown out into pieces. Because your plate was right next to hers, you received the worst of the blow. Got a lot of injuries, broken bones. They didn't think you'd make it." He stops short, and his eyes are shakingly searching my face for something.

"But I did?" I ask, somewhat unsure. This is all so surreal, so dreamlike that I can't help but feel iffy on my survival. Maybe I've lost it, maybe I'm dead, too. Or at least, I'm getting there.

Abel still looks at me intensely for a while, but then suddenly chuckles. It sounds awkward, though. Almost bitter. "Yes, you did," he says. He says something else, but he's muttered it in a voice so low that I can't decipher his words. Abruptly, his eyes fly down and land on our hands again. This time, however, he seems aware of the fact that he's been holding my hand for the entire conversation. "Uh. Sorry," he mutters, chuckling again with the same bitterness as he pulls his hand away gently in an awkward fashion, pausing in between as if hesitating on whether he wanted to let go or not.

Embarrassed, I pull my hand back, too, and set in on my stomach. I'm momentarily hypnotized by the red liquid in the tubes attached to the back of my hand, until I realize it's blood and I force my eyes to stay locked on Abel's. I hate blood. I've never seen it before in real life. It scares me to death.

"So what happened to you?" I ask suddenly, trying to get my mind off the blood and the pinching sensation that has become immediately agitating. "And the others? What about the others?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing happened," he says in an indifferent voice. "I got a couple of cuts, some bruises. Nothing major. Same thing goes for everyone else." Then he pauses. "Well, except..." His voice trails away.

I raise my eyebrows in anxiety. "Except?" I urge him.

"Except for Rita Lorkerstone," he sighs. "She was on the other side of Tania. She's not as injured as you are. In fact, she's already fixed up and roaming the catacombs."

"Then what's wrong with her?" I ask.

"Well, she's really depressed. She won't talk to anyone. Not even me," he says. Oh, that _is _bad. She must be downright depressed if she won't even give herself in to talk to Abel Harter. For a while, I don't understand why she would be so sad about Tania Sinclair dying. Maybe she could be shocked, or perhaps frightened. But sad? That's something new. I'd imagine a senior girl so sick of Tania Sinclair would be ecstatic to have her finally wiped out for good. But suddenly I remember a crucial fact that I haven't paid much attention to all these years—Tania Sinclair was Rita Lorkerstone's half sister by way of their mother.

Suddenly, I feel crushed. Sad for Rita Lorkerstone. Sad for Tania Sinclair's terribly unlikely lot. Sad for her parents. But then, I'm not exactly sad anymore. The emotion transitions into something else, something fiery inside of me that makes me feel warm. No, not warm. I feel like I'm burning for something. Longing for something. Revenge? But against who, or what? The mines? I would have to be crazy to want revenge against the machine mines that the Capitol Gamemakers have made...

_BAM! _The realization hits me like a wrecking ball. But it's so repellent, so different from what I usually feel that I think I've crossed over to the crazy side. I could die right now if I said it out loud. _I want revenge against the Capitol Gamemakers, _I realize.

"Oh no," I whisper, and I snap out of my reverie. _No, no, no, no! _This is wrong. I cannot want revenge against the Capitol Gamemakers. I cannot want revenge against anyone in the Capitol at all. It's crazy. It's unquestionably crazy and unethical. _But it's unethical, what your people are doing to these poor people who are forced into the arenas to die, _a voice inside my head answers my thoughts.

No, it can't be unethical, can it? It's a punishment for them. They dared to defy the power of the Capitol years ago. They started that revolution to kill us all. They wanted control over our lives. It's only fair that they are put through this. If anything, it's disciplinary, isn't it? It's making them all better people. _It's making them all dead people, _the voice says again.

No. No. No. It can't be. We're not murdering them, are we? The tributes themselves are the murderers! They're the ones with lethal weapons in their blood-stained hands. They're the ones that kill the innocent ones. The victors. They've all killed at least one person, right? _The Capitol forced them to kill for their lives. What would you expect?_ No. No. No. No. _NO!_

Suddenly, I realize that my brother has awakened in a start, and Abel is searching me, panick written all over his confused face. "What is it?" Abel asks frantically, and it occurs to me that I may have been screaming during my blurring chase with the train of thought. "What is it, Skye? Are you hurt? Are you hurt? _Skye?_" He's shaking me by the shoulders now, but I can't say anything. I feel like dirt. I feel horrible.

"What's wrong?" he asks again, cupping my chin in his hand, forcing me to look up and answer him. "Tell me, Skye!"

Tears suddenly spill out from my eyes, and I hunch over, sobbing like you wouldn't believe. I'm making these horrible choking sounds, wheezing for air as I exhale them in gasps. I don't say anything, because the sobbing is just so uncontrollable, I'm afraid of looking like a fool if I attempted anything remotely close to uttering a word. Not that I would know how to explain this to Abel anyway.

It's my brother's voice that finally tells me enough is enough. He's harshly questioning Abel, asking him what he has done to me. My brother's tone is cold, and it sounds as if he could kill Abel if he found out anything unpleasant. Abel is confusedly reassuring my brother that he has said nothing wrong, that I'm only probably shocked to hear about Tania. It's at his helplessness to my brother that I resolve to stop sobbing. I gather my composure, and lift my face to theirs, but only to break out crying again.

Abel gets out of the way, and my brother takes his seat almost immediately. Levi reaches out, pats my leg. "What's wrong, Skye?" he asks me gently. "Does anything hurt? Your wounds? Your back? What?"

I gaze up at him through my watery eyes. Levi's image is blurry in my sight, but it doesn't take a lot to realize that he's got a large bump the size of half a tomato on his forehead. The lump is a disgusting bruise-like color, and then for the first time, I wonder what I must look like. "Nothing, Leevs," I say in between hiccups. "I just... Tania Sinclair is dead." I sigh. "I can't believe it."

"Me niether, Skye, Sweetheart," he tells me. "No one can believe it. But listen, they won't cancel the fieldtrip. The school's strict about keeping us here for the rest of the month until the trip is done. They say leaving will waste a colossal lot of money. So we'll have to stick it out, okay? But I'll be here. I'll be here to help and to keep you safe, and I promise not to let anything happen to you," Levi says, then he glances momentarily at Abel. "And Abel promises the exact same thing," he adds, humor slipping into his tone. Abel grimaces, looks away.

I look away, too. Because I don't have the heart to ask them what their little exchange means. And because I really don't want to know. Make that, I don't care. The only thing I care about now is my questionable sanity. My questionable physical condition. And most of all, my potentially questionable lifestyle.


	5. New Eyes

**Author's Note:** Hello! It's me again, and it's another chapter! I really enjoy writing this, and I'm glad that a number of people enjoy reading it, too. It's sort of hard work at the same time, though, but it's equally rewarding when I receive all of your awesome and encouraging replies. Which brings me to saying that I wish there were more repliers. If you're reading this but not replying, I hope you'll do me a favor and drop me a review. Negative, positive, whatever you like. As long as it's a review, and as long as it can let me know what kind of things I should fix and the things that I should keep.

Here's chapter five.

* * *

Have you ever been so confused in your life that you can't seem to pull it together? That nothing seems to function normally anymore? Have you ever felt like someone you looked up to had miserably let you down? Like there was no one you could trust anymore? Like you were hanging only by a string of sanity, the dismembering of which may come at any time of the day at all? No, you don't? Well, I do.

As I sit in my room in the catacombs, my newly found realization is all I can think of. I've been isolating myself for a while already, attempting to get my thoughts in line. I thought that pondering on it more would pacify the confusion inside of me, but it only seems to be spreading even more violently than it did before. Like a spark dropped on dry tinder, my realization is burning to ashes everything I have ever known. My life has been crushed into a jumbled mass of what used to be opinions. I live by my ethics. Now I can't tell what they are exactly.

There's a knock on the door, and then it's my brother's voice calling me out. He says that it's time to get going. My eyebrows scrunch together as I try to recall any of our plans for today. I vaguely remember the attendants saying we were to have a fieldtrip of the mountain today—the mountain that blew up into smithereens a dozen of the tributes in Haymitch Abernathy's Games. It's really not much fun if you ask me, but I don't hesitate to get up from my bed and painfully make my way out of the door.

My wounds still hurt. My backbone is precarious at best. However, I've been moved back into my original chamber; I've been recovering quickly due to the medicine that the doctors are giving me. They're these injections that they shoot into my bone marrow and my veins. I get them every other day, and it acts like a catalyst in the bloodstream that speeds up the process of my recovery, but it comes at the very excruciating cost of pain. But I oblige, because the doctors guarantee that by one week, I'd be as good as new.

"How are you holding out?" Levi asks me as we make our way through the hallways and into the elevator that will bring us up to the arena. We're told not to use the metal plates anymore, due to the Tania Sinclair accident. No one wants to use them again in the first place, so there was little or no conflict in laying down that law.

I shrug, and almost immediately regret that I did. It sends a searing pain flying through my backbone, the most injured portion of my body. I wince, but Levi doesn't notice. "Okay, I guess. I'm a little useless in terms of physical exertion right now, but all in all, I'm okay," I say. _If you count slowly going insane as okay, that is, _I think silently.

He nods. "That's good. There's only a day or two left of your therapy shots anyway, then you'll be better," he says, though he's only partially right. Physically, I'd be better. Mentally, I'd just be getting worse. I don't say anything though, because for the first time in my life, I don't think Levi would understand. See, he loves the Games. He loves the Capitol. As for me? I'm not sure where I stand yet. But wherever sentimental range I dwell in for the mean time, I'm sure I don't want to drag Levi into it. He would genuinely believe me if I said we were potentially in the wrong, and I don't want him to believe me. I'm not even sure if I believe myself.

In the main lobby, there are five elevators. By now, there are kids from Levi's and my grade with us, too, though I don't see Abel. Levi and I end up taking the elevator that contains some of his friends and Rita Lorkerstone. During the short ride, Rita and I exchange a couple of words. Though we don't talk a lot, I can tell that she feels the way I do somehow. Maybe if I can muster enough courage, I'll talk to her about it. Surely, she'd know what to do.

The elevator brings us up to the arena above. Immediately, we find ourselves before the gloriously large mountain that turned into a volcano during Haymitch's Games. The atmosphere smells as good as it did on the first day, and the weather's just as pleasant, if not better. Birds fly high overhead, tweeting melodious notes that waft through the azure blue sky. It's really amazing, and if I didn't know that about twelve other people died here, I'd be ecstatic I'm here.

It's the first time I've come up here since the accident, and the moment we step off the elevator, chills run up my spine. I feel unprotected somehow. Afraid. Frightened. And I don't understand it. I've never been frightened in my entire life, most probably because there's never been enough cause to be frightened back in the cozy Capitol. The sensation is entirely new to me, and I quickly back up into my brother's arms. He takes hold of me gently, though it doesn't help the least. I tell myself that at least I'm not at the site of Tania Sinclair's death. That at least I'm at the site of twelve tributes' deaths. _Oh, that's really reassuring, _I think sarcastically.

Our new head attendant, Clive Horton, appears before us, calling us closer to him. Kait Desser was replaced, and, as I found out a couple of days ago, she had gone insane in the literal sense. I imagine it was worse for her, because she wasn't thrown down during the explosion or too busy being paralyzed to notice the gore that probably blanketed the valley on the day of the incident. She was there to witness Tania Sinclair's brains and guts being blown up into debris.

I shake the disgusting mental image from my brain and force myself to listen to what Clive is saying. He's talking about the mountain. Talking about how long it took the Gamemakers to create such a lethal weapon in a beautiful disguise. Then he discusses of each tribute that died here. When he speaks about them, there's something behind him that appears. It's like a gigantic television screen floating in air. We have something like it back home in our house, only it's not as big as this. As Clive names each tribute that died during the eruption, their pictures appear on the screen. The faces of the tributes are slightly see-through. Behind their pictures, I can vaguely make out the ruthless murderer of these kids—the volcanic mountain. I count on my fingers the tributes that Clive mentions, and I find that thirteen—not twelve—tributes have died here. The last tribute that I failed to remember was a twelve-year-old girl from District Eight.

Immediately, I realize we look somewhat akin. We have the same face shape, the same nose, though her features are more childlike than mine. The way she smiles even reminds me of my own grin. Her brown hair is dark just as mine. It flows down and crashes on her shoulders in beautiful, thick waves. Her eyes are the same dark color as her hair, and that's where we differ. All in all, however, I'm thinking she looks more like my sibling than Levi does. And by the way everyone is glancing at me and then back at the picture, I can tell they're thinking the same thing, too.

"Her name was Sage Mayflower," Clive explains. "A clever one, she was. Nobody was on her trail. She was a master of disguise, but she neglected to realize the true masters of disguise. The Gamemakers were a step ahead of this sly one. You'd think she would have identified the camoflagued mountain at first sight. Such a shame." Clive shakes his head in mock sadness. There's a small, slightly smug smile on his lips that disgusts me, and I turn my head enough to notice that Abel, who I didn't notice was beside me the whole time, is upset with Clive as well. However, he immediately shakes his expression off and attempts to appear neutral, but there's still that trace of a distaste on his face.

The screen behind Clive vanishes, and we move on. The rest of the day drags on uneventfully, and after an entire day of walking around the mountain—and even walking _inside _the emptied mountain—we head back down into the catacombs just as sunset hits the horizon.

When we arrive, I take a shower and wash the sweat from my body, heedful of my wounds and recovering bones. I step out and dress in a gray shirt and some pants. There are other, more Capitol clothes in my drawers, but I have no taste for them. They're all labeled clothes like the ones that the other girls wear, and I imagine that this trip must be the closest to heaven they've ever been.

The moment I slip out of my room, I see Abel. It's no surprise, though, because for the past few days, he's been making it a habit to walk with me to the dining room for dinner. He's leaning against the wall across my door, hands buried into the pockets of his navy blue sweater. He looks up at me and smiles. "Hi," he says quietly, and it occurs to me that he isn't loud or rowdy like I used to think he was before I even officially met him.

I only smile at him, and he pushes himself off the wall to walk to the lobby with me. We walk about four feet apart from each other, even though we're the only two people in the hallways, but somehow it feels like we can't be any closer than we already are. "So what did you think of the expedition on Mount Felo De Se?" he asks me. He doesn't look at me when he talks. He only looks straight ahead.

"Felo De Se?" I say, not looking at him either. "That's what they called it?"

He gives something in between a snort and a laugh. "Yeah. It literally means _self destruct,_" he says.

"And self destruct, it did," I mutter loudly, and he chuckles. We are silent for the rest of the walk until we reach the dining chamber's doors. Abel holds one of them open for me, and I stroll in gratefully.

The dining chamber looks as it always does. There's a single, long polished oak table that can seat all of us, on which stretches an elaborate, delicious-looking feast. As usual, everyone's already there except for me and Abel. We're always the last to arrive, because I take so long in the shower due to my wounds. Everyone's seated in the exact same seat that they claimed since the first time we've dined here. My brother sits at far left side of the oak table, Rita Lorkerstone right beside him. There are two empty seats across them, which Abel and I are known to occupy. Everything is exactly identical, exactly in order. Except for one thing.

Haymitch Abernathy is sitting squarely at the end of the table.


	6. Sober

At first, I'm too stunned to even move. Since nobody warned me of Haymitch Abernathy's presence, It's a little bit overwhelming. The realization hits me like a hurricane, and from that point to sitting down and actually eating beside Haymitch, everything goes by in a surreal rush of emotions. The first emotion would be excitement. Excitement of having my favorite Hunger Games victor over for dinner. And then the second emotion would be guilt. Although I'm still quite confused about my views concerning the Games, I'm absolutely sure I shouldn't be reacting with as much glee as I am now. And the third and final emotion would be fear. Yes, fear. Fear that I've gone completely insane, because here I am, having dinner with a man who has killed innocent children, and I'm not the least bit disgruntled by that fact. Surely I must be some kind of beast.

Once I've finished my food, I just sit around and poke at the single pea that's left on my plate. I would eat it, but I think it serves a better purpose as something to keep me occupied, because if I have to look up at Haymitch right now, I'm almost utterly sure I'll either faint or start trying to spark up conversation with him. And no one wants that.

Someone touches my shoulder before I can think too much, and I start. But it's only Abel. "Would you like to take a walk outside?" he asks with a relatively low voice, but it's clear that nearly everyone in the room is straining to hear every word he lets out. Everyone except for Haymitch, who is now close to totally bereft of sobriety.

I pause for one moment and think it out. Originally, I wanted to get a word or two with Haymitch. But now that's he's almost knocked out, I can see that it would be a colossal waste of time. So a walk outside it is. "Um, sure," I mutter to Abel finally, and I get out of my seat as quietly as I can.

I let Abel lead me out, since I don't know where we're going and I'm really not familiar with the catacombs just yet. My injury has kept me confined in my chamber for so long that I've never had the chance to go around. Abel and I keep walking around for a while until I finally wonder if he plans to actually take me somewhere else, or if this is the walk in itself. I'm about to ask him, but when the single hall we're taking comes at an end with a glass elevator, he does all the explaining.

"I've gone around the catacombs for a while," he tells me, pushing a button on the transparent elevator. "And I found this elevator. It leads to a certain portion of the arena that I think is really interesting."

We walk inside and the little cubicle shoots up. The walls of the elevator suddenly turn opaque black as we are transported up. "So where exactly does it lead?" I say, leaning on the wall. There are multiple elevators in the catacombs that lead up to different places in the arena. After the Hunger Games, they build these elevators in for the occasional Capitol visitors' convenience.

Abel leans on the wall beside me, too. "You'll see," he says with a small smile that tells me he's enjoying my curiousity. I only look at him for a while, and then chuckle as I look away. I don't know what you'd call the relationship between me and Abel Harter, but I'm almost certain we're going nowhere. Not that I'd like it to go anywhere. I like this. I like being friends.

After another half minute, the walls gradually dissolve back into transparency, showing a mysterious woods behind it. I slowly push myself off the wall and stare past the clear glass wall and at the enchanted beauty that lies beneath it. The moon shines unrelentlessly, its light filtered by the canopy of leafy branches. If you look hard enough, there are eyes everywhere. Bright eyes that could only belong to a mockingjay. But even at night, the woods don't seem to be a scary place. If anything, it seems to be a place soaked with pleasant surprises.

There's a soft _ting _that indicates the end of the elevator's route, and the crystal doors slide open. The woodsy sounds swoop through us as we quietly stroll out, mystified by the forest's beauty. As we pass by, I let my hand glide across a large tree's trunk. The exterior is rough and slightly cold, but it almost seems as if there's magic in it.

After a while, Abel speaks. "I used to be really eager to go into the woods," he says. "When I was younger, we lived far off west of the Capitol Main. Behind our house was a thicket of trees that always intrigued me."

"Did you ever go in?" I ask, completely engrossed with his story. I've never been in the woods before. Well, at least before right now. I've never even seen one with my own eyes. Just on the television set at home, when they air the annual Games. There aren't that many natural trees in the Capitol. Just fake ones that are there to look pretty.

He shakes his head. "No. I tried, but I couldn't."

"Well, that's okay," I say. "I would've been scared to go in by myself, too."

"No, I mean I really couldn't," he counters. "Every time I tried to cross into it, I'd immediately find myself in front of our house again. Almost like I was on reset."

This catches me off guard. "Reset?" I echo, raising my eyebrows at him. "Expound."

He looks up at the canopy of leaves above us for a while, and I can tell he's deep in thought. "Have you ever played video games?" he asks suddenly, looking back at me.

I'm confused, but nevertheless, I nod. "Yes. My brother and I are fans of simulation games," I say.

He's silent again, licking his lips before continuing. "Well, you know how it is when you go past the border of simulation games, right?" he says. "When you let your character cross over the boundaries that frame the game? It resets you. You pop up at the main road again. You're transported back on course."

"So you're saying," I start, trying to digest his words, "that you were reset in front of your house? That the line between your house and the woods was the boundary?" Slowly, it started making sense. But the more it made sense, the more questions started spawning inside my brain. If what Abel said was true, then that would mean that the imaginary line the woods make is the end of the Capitol City. That beyond it, there is nothing. Or is there?

He shrugs. "I don't know. That's what I've always thought."

"Take me there," I tell him suddenly. He looks up at me surprisedly. "Take me to the woods behind your house when we get back," I say.

He sighs. "I can't. I don't live there anymore. When I turned twelve, some sturdy-looking men came into our home and told us they were sent by the government to relocate us. They said something about our house being a dangerous place. They also said that there was nothing to worry about; that they were going to monitor the dangers and prohibit anything hazardous from crossing into the city. I can't remember where our house used to be, and trust me, I've tried asking my parents. But whenever I do, their faces go pale and they turn into stone for the next few hours. I've learned never to go to them for answers."

I'm about to ask him another question, but I'm momentarily distracted when we break into a clearance. It's the valley. And further along the valley, the Cornucopia. The moonlight glints off the golden horn, and it seems to jump out of the beautiful scenery. I can't help but quietly gasp in awe.

"The Cornucopia," I whisper. I know that Abel gets what I mean. That we're here now. At the place where Tania Sinclair had died. Abel remains quiet, and I'm tempted to keep talking. "You know, it was really awful," I say, referring to the incident. I know Abel understands though he shows no signs of comprehension. "I couldn't wrap my mind around it when you first told me a couple of days ago. It was almost surreal. I kept thinking I was dreaming, because for years, I had been fantasizing about killing Tania Sinclair," I say.

"Everyone fantasizes about killing Tania Sinclair," he says.

"Yes, but I had a special hate for her," I say. "When we were younger, she used to pick on me a lot. She still did when we got to high school, but it was less of physical bullying and more of telling me how much of a loser I was." And it's true. Tania Sinclair never liked me, but I wasn't fond of her either, so there was no love lost. Still, I despised her with every fiber of my being.

Tania was bad enough when we were younger, but she just got worse when we both turned fifteen, which is the legal Capitol age to start altering your physical appearance. I didn't want to get any alterations because my parents and my brother didn't have any, and so I grew up thinking they were disgusting. When I refused to redo myself, I became the paradigm of a high school loser. And Tania never gave up an opportunity to remind everyone of that fact.

"But even though you hated her, you'd have to admit that her death wasn't at all satisfying, was it?" Abel asks.

"No," I say, almost surprised that he'd bring this up. "I may watch twenty three teenagers being killed on television every year, but I'm not that much of a monster. Well, yet."

"Monsters," he mutters. "I've thought about that, you know."

"About what?" I ask.

He shrugs. "About us, the Capitol people. And them, the District people. Ideally, they'd be there to keep us entertained. But it's different when you think beyond who they are as tributes, but who they are as people themselves." Gradually, Abels voice softens into a whisper, and I somehow know that our conversation is not for every ear to hear.

"But it's hard, isn't it?" I whisper. "It's hard to assume they're real people with real lives and real loved ones, because all they appear to be on television are savage contestants."

"It _is _hard," Abel admits. "I've been thinking about it since I was fourteen. And I've been at war with myself since then. But all you really need to do to fully understand how real the tributes are is to watch the Hunger Games, particularly the day of the reaping. Watch how their parents and friends throw themselves at the tributes when they're reaped. Watch how they cry and howl for a reconsideration, though they should know that there is no reconsidering once you've been chosen."

He's right. When he says that, pictures of the past Games cross my mind. There was this one particular girl last year that had to tear herself away from her friends that had huddled around her when she was reaped. She was crying when she strode up the stage. And, later in the Games, all it took was one knife in the back and she was gone. What was it like for her friends? For her family? If they were practically writhing with agony when the girl was reaped, I imagine they were almost dead themselves when she died.

"And then they all just die," Abel continues. His whisper has dropped into a robotic monotone. "All being slaughtered. And then we send their mutilated bodies back in wooden crates to their families."

His words pierce through my heart, reminding me of how brutal this all is. All those kids died, and we don't even bother to honor them though they are fully deserving of it. When Tania Sinclair died, we sent her body back in a golden casket inlad with diamonds. And, to top it off, the school sent millions of luxury items to the Sinclair family to show our condolences. And what do we do? We force twenty four kids into an arena to slaughter each other, not even thanking their loved ones for bringing forth a son or daughter that gave us so much entertainment while they were dying.

The thought sends a chill down my spine. I wrap my arms around myself and notice that the temperature has transformed greatly. I think Abel notices my unease, because he lays a hand on my shoulder.

"We can go back if you'd rather," Abel tells me, his face showing concern for me.

I nod. "That would be best."

We trudge back, following our trail to the elevator. It's a ten-minute walk if we don't talk and if we move quickly. Abel pushes a button and we enter the elevator, shooting back down like we did up.

When we step into the catacombs again, it's past ten in the evening. It didn't occur to me that we'd been up at the arena for a while already. Anyway, with our minds still pondering on tonight's topic, we part ways, Abel heading for his room and I for mine. But, just before I enter my room, an idea pops up in my head. An idea that could well be the answer to all my questions. But It's so ridiculous and so miserable that I can't help but doubt at first, but eventually, I decide it's worth trying.

Quickly, I place my key back into my pocket and walk hurriedly down the hall and through about five doors. _Where is he? _I ask myself as I skid past the halls. No one is awake anymore, everyone already comfortable inside their own chambers...

And then it hits me. I know where to find him.

And I run. Run even if it hurts my spine. Run even if it means getting injured for life. My pace quickens as I search for one chamber that is the best in the catacombs. What did Clive say about it a few days ago? _"It's reserved for the best of the best, and I say that none of us deserve it. Except for one person." _Yes, it could be, couldn't it? Surely he deserves it.

I pass by door after door, my eyes eating up every single hall as I search for the right one. And finally, when I think that I can't find it, I run into a dead end. But it's not just any dead end.

It's the dead end to Haymitch Abernathy's chamber.


	7. Dreams

Have you ever regretted doing something just seconds after you've done it? It sends this ripple of embarrassment down your back, and you feel like you want to hide underneath your clothes somehow. Hot blush creeps up your neck and your face turns an unmistakable red. You want to bury your face in your palms and groan at yourself. If you don't understand what I mean, let me give you an example.

Take me, for instance. Right now.

Right after I knock on Haymitch Abernathy's door, all the emotions mentioned in the above paragraph flood through me. Suddenly, I feel as if I must retreat. But it's too late, because the door opens and Haymitch's face peeps through the gap. He doesn't look sober, but his face isn't as flushed with drink as it was earlier. I tell myself this is a good thing, and that his lack of sobriety will probably get me more answers. But I know deep inside that I am terribly scared.

For a while, I consider running away. But then I would come off as one of those obsessed fans of the Hunger Games. Okay, maybe that isn't entirely off. But still. What a ridiculous title to be remembered by. I can just imagine Haymitch with his victor friends, sharing a funny experience as they sip on their overly expensive wines. _"Oh, yes, I've had one of those weird times," Haymitch would say. "There was this Capitol girl once. Knocked on my door and took a run for it. I don't know what she wanted to achieve, but she sure was a good runner. Maybe if all else fails, she can run errands for President Snow. Surely, he'd be pleased with her efficiency." _And then his group of friends would laugh and jest.

"Hullo?" Haymitch slurs, pulling me out of my reverie. "Who are you?" His voice is soaked with so much hostility that I actually wince as if I were physically hit.

I gather myself together and give him a half smile. "My name is Skye. I was wondering if I could have a word with you, Mr. Abernathy, if you don't mind."

"No," he answers bluntly, starting to close his door on me.

His indifference offends me, and I am instantly outraged that he won't even take the time to consider talking to me. I don't understand why I'm so angry. I'm not usually the short tempered one. And I surprise myself even more when I stick my foot between the door and its doorframe. Luckily, my shoe is hard and sturdy, so I barely feel pain when the door slams into my foot.

"Look, Mr. Abernathy," I say with as much hostility as he had replied with earlier. "I've come a long way from the Capitol, and if our head attendant finds out about what I'm doing right now, I will be sent back to the Capitol and may potentially be turned into an Avox. It's a criminal offense to be harrassing the victors. If I go so far as putting myself in jeopardy simply to speak with you, then you can rest assured it will not be of unimportant chatter."

Haymitch looks taken aback by my sudden burst of words. And I don't blame him. I'm surprised with myself as well. Talk about out of character. He stares me down for a while, sizing me up. It takes all of the courage I have to not run away right then and there. After a while, however, he sighs.

"Five minutes," he says in a monotone, and opens the door wide enough for me to slip in.

I can't help it. My eyes light up at the sign of surrender, and I grin at Haymitch before strolling into his room. Like mine, his room is maroon inlaid with gold. Unlike mine, however, it is about six times larger, complete with a tureen of fruit set on the dark wooden table.

Haymitch closes the door behind him and nods at the table. "Sit," he says. There's less venom in his words, but he's still wary.

I do as the man says, and he takes the seat across me. "Thanks," I say. "This will only be a while, I promise you."

He doesn't look as if he cares about the time. Actually, he doesn't look like he cares about _anything. _He only shrugs and takes a gulp of a red liquid from his wine glass that reeks of alcohol. When I don't speak, he gestures to me. "So?" he urges me. "Get on with it."

"Uh, well," I stutter. "I don't know how to begin this, but I came here for an answer." Haymitch raises his eyebrows at me, but he doesn't reply. I continue, "An answer for the question that has been attacking me everyday since my schoolmate died in an electrical error here in the arena earlier this week."

Haymitch's eyes have widened. "He died?" he sputters, setting his wine glass aside in disbelief. I don't think I'm surprised that he finds it hard to believe. Capitol people don't die. In a way, they live forever. Or at least until they've been living for so long that they basically get bored with life and decide to die.

"_She_ died," I correct him. "The mines around her metal plate were accidentally reactivated and she stepped off of it before the end of sixty seconds."

He looks down at the table, his eyes showing no emotion. I take this as a chance to talk. "Basically, it's been a really rough ride for us this past week," I say in a monotone. "I've never known anyone who died before they turned a hundred years old before. Tania Sinclair was nineteen. Nobody expected it." I let out a bitter chuckle. "I thought I'd be happy she died," I mutter, and the bitterness in my voice is not disguised. "I hated her. She made my life hell on earth. But it troubled me when she died. All of my schoolmates have gotten over it already. Me? Not in the least. And I doubt I will ever."

Silence. So I keep talking. "How do you stand it?" I say, a little irritated by the fact that Haymitch has seen forty-seven teenagers die, yet he doesn't seem disgruntled. "How many people have you killed? But you don't seem to mind. It doesn't affect you. What do you do? I just want to get rid of this feeling. It's eating me up alive! I can't place it. I haven't felt it in my entire life. I want to live like I did before, guiltlessly watching the Games. I want to go back to that."

As I say that last line, it occurs to me that I don't actually want to go back to it. I don't actually want to be a monster again. All I want is to run away from it all. Make it end. So I won't have to be so guilty anymore. Guilty of all those years of betting for the life of one tribute. Guilty for choosing who would die and who would live.

"I don't," Haymitch says. His response takes me by surprise. I didn't expect him to talk.

"You don't what?" I ask.

He shakes his head and sighs. "I don't stand it. I _can't _stand it. Once you're in the Hunger Games, there's no way out. I've been living in the same darkness and the same fear that cloaked me since I was reaped. I've turned to drink, but it only works for a while. When I sober up, the effect is doubly worse. If I can avoid sleeping, I do, because believe it or not, I'm scared. Every time my eyelids close over my eyes, I relive my time in the Hunger Games. Relive Maysilee's death. Relive killing the girl from District 1."

Wow. And I thought _my _life was bad.

"What happened when you got back from the Hunger Games?" I ask quietly.

"My district was showered with food and other necessities that we would consider luxuries," Haymitch replies. "Everyone was caught up in the celebration. But then, after another year, it all began to sink in. Three of my friends from my district were killed in my Games. And for the next Hunger Games, I mentored some kids that went to the same school as I did. They were both killed. Fourteen years and twenty-eight dead District 12 tributes later, and nothing was in the least bit the same anymore. Slowly, my family started dying out. But I didn't care, because I was at a deep end of a dark tunnel where no one could reach me."

I look down, in danger of tears. I want to say something, but my voice is gone. All I can do is trace the wooden carvings with my finger as I think of those twenty-eight dead District 12 tributes. Twenty-eight lives lost. Twenty-eight families left scarred forever. And heaven knows how many people left hurting.

Haymitch sighs. "When the families find out that their kids have been reaped, they lock themselves in their houses and force themselves to watch the Games in hopes of their kids' survival. When they die, a part of the family dies, too. Their household is never the same."

"I don't want any more people to die," I say suddenly, my eyes filling with tears. "I want it to stop. I don't like it, anymore. I just want it to stop."

Silence. Haymitch and I are staring at the fruit between us. The mood in the room has changed a great deal since I first walked it. From hostility, to wariness, to finally surrender. We've both laid it all down, secrets that we're not meant to tell. Opinions that are to be kept private. It's all out.

"What's your name, again?" Haymitch asks out of nowhere with a hoarse voice.

I swallow and force myself to answer. "Skye Reese," I say.

He nods, seeming to be deep in thought. "You know," he says. "You look a lot like a little girl that I once knew."

"Sage Mayflower," I guess.

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Yeah. District 8. She was a nice little girl. She was really clever. I thought she'd make it through. Then, one night, I saw her face projected up in the sky. The next year, when I went out for the Victory Tour, I had the pleasure of meeting her family. Nice folks, they are," Haymitch says. "You remind me of her. Not just physically, either. She had a good spirit. You may have guiltlessly watched heaven knows how many kids die, but you're not that bad, Kid."

The corners of my lips tilt upward in a little smile. "Thanks," I say, and I mean it. I'm surprised to know that Haymitch Abernathy doesn't consider me a monster. "And you may have killed heaven knows how many kids, but you're not that bad, either, Mr. Abernathy," I tell him, joking good-naturedly.

"Haymitch," he corrects me. There's a ghost of a smile on his lips, and I can tell he's struggling to keep his hostile facade in check. A comfortable silence cloaks the room, and we sit there silently until I decide it's too late to stay awake.

I tell Haymitch I have to go, thank him that he's given me some time, and I leave for my room in peace. As I walk the halls, I'm happy to finally have my mind set. Now I know with every fiber of my being that the Hunger Games is indeed a shameful event. I don't know what to do with my realization yet. I don't know if I should tell anyone. But for the mean time, I'm content with finally knowing where I stand.

I get to my room without waking anyone, and I fall asleep quickly. But a dream keeps me semi-awake deep into the night.

_In my dream, I am walking the woods with Abel by my side. It's dark, obviously evening time. Abel's talking about his old house again, about the woods behind it. About being reset. Our previous conversation echoes through the woods._

_"Well, you know how it is when you go past the border of simulation games, right?" Abel says, like he did earlier. "When you let your character cross over the boundaries that frame the game? It resets you. You pop up at the main road again. You're transported back on course."_

_"So you're saying that you were reset in front of your house?" I say. "That the line between your house and the woods was the boundary?"_

_He shrugs. "That's what I've always thought."_

_Suddenly, in my dream, a little girl appears in the middle of the woods. Sage Mayflower. I gesture to Abel to stop talking, and we observe her from a distance. She's sitting, her back against a tree trunk. She's gritting her teeth, and she looks pale. She looks a little cold, though I don't feel a change in temperature._

_When Abel takes a step toward her, a twig underneath his foot cracks, and Sage's attention whips our way. She doesn't seem surprised by us, though. "There you two are!" she says with a pleasant smile, waving us over. "You know, you've been keeping me waiting."_

_Tentatively, we approach her and sit on the ground with her. We're quiet, Sage looking down at her shivering body and Abel and I looking at each other, perplexed. Abel notices that Sage is shivering, and he kindly takes his coat off and wraps it around her. Sage thanks him, and that's when she talks to me._

_"What I'm about to tell you is very important," she says to me. "Can you listen and promise me to never forget it?"_

_I nod. "Yes, I promise."_

_"Good. Now, you will need to find some people," she tells me._

_"Why?" I ask, fully perplexed._

_She smiles at me as if I've just asked the stupidest question ever. "Because you'll need help, and a lot of it. Now, there are very little people you can trust, but you will find them. I know you will. You're smart enough."_

_I only nod, though I don't understand anyting she's saying._

_Sage grins at me, and then she turns. She's reaching for something behind the tree trunk, and pulls out two backpacks. She gives one to me, and the other to Abel. "All you'll ever need is in there," she says to us. "Don't forget your supply. Never forget your supply. Know what's in there, and use it wisely."_

_Abel and I flip the top flaps of the backpacks open and we dig around. The first thing I see is a golden compass. The next thing I find is a brown leather wallet with a golden pattern painted on it. Then I pull out another item. It's a pin that all the Head Peacekeepers wear to indicate their authority. The pin is golden and rectangular, with the seal of the Capitol on it and the words "Peacekeeper Lively" carved into it underneath. The last thing in the backpack is a golden locket. I open it and find a picture of a girl with black hair and gray eyes on one side of the locket. On the other side of it, there is a picture of a mockingjay in flight. But it's not just any mockingjay. The mockingjay in the picture is burning. As in, with flames. Yet it looks gloriously beautiful._

_I look up at Sage. "What is all this?" I ask._

_"All the things you will ever need," she says back and she gets up. Abel and I stand, too, putting our arms through our backpacks' straps. "One more thing," Sage tells me us she digs through her pocket. She pulls out a golden necklace with a circular pendant. The pendant is made of some sort of dark gem. It's really dark that you think its black until you shift it around and it glows a dark maroon._

_Sage then stands on her tiptoes as she reaches for my neck and fastens the necklace around it. Only when she stands so close do I realize that she's wearing a necklace that looks identical to the one she put on me. When she steps back, she pulls something else from her pocket._

_It's a black bangle with a golden pattern around it. She puts it around Abel's left wrist and then smiles at the both of us. "Just remember," she says. "I trust you. We all do."_

_Abel and I nod at her, and then she waves at us. We both take it as a cue to leave. Abel leaves ahead without turning back, but I'm a little hesitant. I glance at Sage over my shoulder, and she smiles at me. "Get going. And don't forget, okay?" she tells me. "Don't forget."_

_I'm about to answer her, but I'm caught off guard when I notice that her eyes are gold. But it doesn't make sense, because Sage's eyes are dark brown. _My _eyes are gold. I'm completely unprepared for the next thing that happens, because my jaw drops as, very slowly, the little girl grows. I literally mean it. She's growing in height until she's my size. Her facial features also mature until they look eerily identical to mine..._

_Then it hits me. It's me. She's _me_!_

_The girl smiles. "Don't forget," she says once more, and then her voice and her face fade away in wisps.  
_


	8. Secrets

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone. This chapter is dedicated to every one of my readers. Thanks for sticking with me. This chapter contains a little thinking, and a lot of clues about what will happen in the future! So stay sharp! You might just guess my entire plot. Though for my own sake I hope you don't!

Here's chapter eight.

* * *

I wake up with a start, sitting straight up on my warm bed. Beady drops of sweat streak down from my forehead, my entire body soaked with perspiration. Scenes from my dream still remain in my mind. It was so realistic. So graphic. For a while, I just sit there silently, pondering on what the dream might have meant, if there was a meaning to it at all. However, it only hurts my head to be thinking deeply so early in the morning, and I decide to shake the dream off for the mean while.

When I get up, I don't toss my covers away and jump off gleefully like I usually did back in the Capitol. Slowly, I drag myself off my bed and trudge over to the bathroom. Then I realize that I've changed greatly since coming here. What a surprise my parents will get when they find that their only daughter has turned from the very system that flourishes our lives.

I take a shower quickly, changing into a simple shirt and some pants before strolling out of my room. When I walk the hallways and find that no one is awake yet, I check the watch on my wrist. 6:16 AM. Lovely. You'd think I would've at least dreamt for a while longer, since the only time for peace I have is when I'm asleep.

Within a few minutes of walking, I arrive at the breakfast room. It's a different and slightly smaller room than the dining room we use for dinner. In the catacombs, there are two breakfast rooms. One for the girls, and the other for the boys. You see, I've noticed that our rooms are divided by gender. For example, the boys' rooms are the District 1-6 chambers. The girls' rooms are the District 7-12 chambers. So the two separate breakfast rooms are stationed in our own gender divisions.

When I break into the girls' breakfast room, I find that no one has arrived yet. Except for one person. It's Rita Lorkerstone, Tania Sinclair's half sister. She sits at the table, staring at the food idly with a hollow look in her glassy eyes as she toys with something in her hand. Her carnation pink, extravagantly long and wavy hair is tied up into a high ponytail that doesn't cover her pale features at all. Tentatively, I take the seat across hers and grab a fruit from the cornucopia in between us.

"Hi," I say, taking a small bite of the fruit.

A half-smile appears on Rita's face, but clearly, it's forced. "Hi," she says back. Her voice is soft and she speaks at a slightly high and girlish octave, but her tone is smooth nevertheless. She has only a faint Capitol accent, as opposed to Tania's full-on accent. "How are you, Skye?" she asks me. I'm taken aback, because why would anyone ask me how I am? In the Capitol, we never ask this question unless it's clear that the person is dying. Everything is so over-the-top perfect that there's no point in asking how a person is. "How are your wounds?" she continues.

"I'm alright," I venture cautiously. "I'm healing up. What about you?"

She chuckles, but a bitter tone haunts it. "I'm okay. My wounds aren't healing though. I doubt they ever will," she adds. For a while, this confuses me, because all her cuts and bruises have disappeared. But then I realize she's referring to emotional wounds.

Silence. "I'm sorry," I say quietly, just to show that I care. I decide to put my fruit down on the plate, since it would probably be rude to speak of a dead person while nibbling on food nonchalantly. I hold myself back from letting out a stream of condolences, because it might make her cry. And I don't like to see people cry, because it makes me want to cry, too.

"No, don't be," Rita says. "It was just an... accident, right?" But it's obvious that she's been thinking deeply about it. Suddenly, I feel the urge to tell her about my realization. But how do I start? _"Hey, Rita, I know that your sister just died, but get over it, because twenty three other kids die every Hunger Games and we have to change it." _Epic fail. That's going to win me a spot on Rita's hate list for sure.

I'm about to reply to her, but something in her hand catches my eye. It looks like a necklace. "What's that?" I suddenly burst out, and as soon as I ask, I regret it. _Way to change the mood, Skye._

Rita looks surprised and perplexed for a while, until she catches me eyeing the trinket. At least she doesn't seem upset with my changing the subject so quickly. She smiles and dangles it in front of me. It's a necklace that looks vaguely familiar, and I feel as if I've seen it before. The chain is golden, and so is the material that circles the dark gem pendant. It looks black until Rita shifts it around and it glows a dark maroon when the light hits it...

Then I feel like I've been hit by a wrecking-ball. I know where I've seen it before. Everything surges into me. The scenes of my latest dream. The backpack. The little girl that may have been me. Her tying a necklace around my neck...

My voice catches at my throat, and I can't speak. Luckily, Rita does all the talking. "It's a necklace that Tania and I bought last year from this shop that accepts exports from District 8," Rita explains. "There were two of them, and we decided to buy both for the two of us. It was the only thing that lived from the incident." She tugs at a golden chain at her neck, and she pulls out a pendant that is identical to the one in her hand. Now I understand. It was like a symbol of their love for each other. Like two matching rings for a couple when they get married.

"It's beautiful," I manage to say. I can't believe what I'm seeing. It's as if my dream has come to life. Is this a sign? A sign that I can trust Rita? I don't know. And I don't feel the urge to know yet. Just breathing is a challenge for me right now.

Rita looks like she's considering something. A beat of silence passes, and then she holds the necklace out to me. "Here, you can have it," she tells me. "You and Tania aren't the best of friends, but I can tell she'd want you to have it."

I'm stunned. How can she say that Tania would want me to have it? And how could she just give it to me, no questions asked? It's the only thing she has to remind her of Tania, yet she's giving it away to me. This _has _to be a sign. It can't be purely coincidence that the very necklace I dreamt about is being bestowed upon me now.

"Thanks," I say, hesitantly taking the jewelry from her. Fiddling with the lock for a while, I finally secure the necklace around my neck. The gold is cold against my skin, but somehow it radiates a certain warmth.

Rita smiles. "You're welcome. You're a sweet kid, Skye. And I know that Tania was really mean to you, but she was my only little sister, and she's dead and gone now. So please, can you do me a favor and let her rest in peace? Will you forgive her?" she asks.

I nod. "I already have, Rita," I say.

"Thank you," she whispers, and I swear there are tears in her eyes. But Rita doesn't give me the chance to reply, because she quickly excuses herself and hops out of the room. I stare after her, and just as she opens the door to leave, someone comes in. It's Abel, with a look of intent in his eyes. He glances curiously at Rita when she passes him, but he shakes it off and comes by me.

"I need to talk to you," Abel says. There's no trace of humor or lightness in his voice. He sounds like what he wants to tell me is crucial. Like it could well be the difference between life and death.

I nod. "So talk," I tell him.

"Not here," he says, glancing around. "My room."

I don't understand why he insists to talk to me in his room, but his serious expression wins out and I give myself in. He takes the lead, and we're lucky that no one is hanging around the hallway to see me enter his room. That wouldn't paint a very innocent picture. My brother would probably lose his mind.

Once in his room, the automatic metal door slides behind us. However, Abel doesn't seem to be satisfied with the privacy, and he types out a sixteen-number combination that locks the electric doors. Even with a key, no one from the outside can come in unless they type in the exact same code.

I give him a strange look. "Abel," I say slowly. "You're scaring me."

He glances back at me from the door, momentarily confused. But then he understands and laughs. "Don't worry, I'm not going to do anything to you," he says. He finally finishes up the combination code and smiles. "Just, you know, paranoid."

"About?" I urge.

He shakes his head. "This place is bugged. At least, the hallways and the dining rooms are. For the comfort of the Capitol people, the engineers took out the cameras and audio bugs in the private chambers," he says.

_Ah, he wants to talk about something private, _it occurs to me. Suddenly, I'm excited to hear what he has to say. But most of all, I'm excited to share with him what I've found out about the Hunger Games. He's the only one I can talk to about this.

"So what did you want to talk about?" I ask him curiously.

He sighs, gesturing to his bed. He and I take a seat on the edge and he begins, "I'm going to tell you something. Not something for everyone to hear. Just you."

"I understand," I say, and I do. He means he wants me to shut up about whatever he's about to say.

Abel looks just about ready to begin, but then he hesitates. "You won't freak out, will you?" he asks with an almost nervous expression.

I draw a finger across where my heart is. "Cross my heart, hope to die," I say with a grin.

He chuckles for a while, but eventually his smile fades. "I know it's ridiculous," he sighs, "but I had a dream last night. You were in it."

I almost gasp. "I did, too!" I exclaim, fully soaked in surprise.

He raises his eyebrows at me. "You dreamt of me, too?"

I nod excessively, but then I catch myself and shake my head. "Actually, I had a dream that _contained _you. We were in the woods, you were talking about your house and being reset..." My voice trails away.

"And then Sage Mayflower appeared out of nowhere?" he finished.

"Yes!" I exclaim again, but this time a little too loudly. I clasp my hand over my mouth. Wouldn't want anyone to overhear us.

Abel nods, and then turns away. He seems to be deep in thought. It suddenly occurs to me that both of us have acquired the same dream. Which means that the entire night, we had somehow been together. That whatever I lived through, he was living in his own perspective, too.

"Wait, what was in your backpack?" I ask, immediately curious.

He stares upward, like he's trying to pull something out from his memory. "There was a silver hand-held device, a bottle of red liquor, and a Peacekeeper's pin. And there was this golden mockingjay pin, too, with a circle framing it," he adds. "What was in yours?"

"A golden compass, a brown wallet with gold patterns on it, a Peacekeeper's pin, and a golden locket with a picture of a girl on one side and a burning mockingjay in flight on the other," I say.

"Wait, a picture of a girl?" Abel asks. "What did she look like?"

I close my eyes and try to imagine her features. Strangely enough, when I summon her picture from my memory, it comes without struggle. I see her face clearly. "Black hair, gray eyes," I say. "Somewhat strong features. Olive skin. And her hair's pulled back in a braid."

When I open my eyes again, Abel chuckles. "That was really detailed," he says.

I smile and shrug. "I have a good memory," I say.

For a while, we just sit there, smiling at each other. I think we're both just so weirded out that we can't help but grin at each other. What else is there to do, after all? We've both just received eerily identical dreams. No, wait. We've received the _same _dream. Which is just as freaky.

I'm sort of confused when Abel's face takes on a strange intensity. His smile fades away, replaced by a thoughtful expression. Gently, he reaches out to me and holds the pendant of my necklace in his palm. His thumb strokes the shiny surface of the dark gem. "Isn't this what Sage gave you last night?" he asks, squinting at the necklace. He looks like he's trying to figure something out.

"Yeah," I say, and I tell him about my entire encounter with Rita Lorkerstone this morning. When I finish, he looks almost amazed.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. "Wow," is all he says.

"Yeah," I sigh, too, but then I gasp when I see a black bangle with golden patterns around Abel's hand. "Isn't _that _what Sage gave _you_ last night?" I ask. Now it's my turn to stare and try to figure it out.

Abel nods. "This morning, when I left for breakfast, I saw Oakley Wingfield with this around his wrist," he says. Oakley Wingfield is a boy from my brother's class. Tall and handsome with golden hair and sun-kissed skin, he's just as well known as Abel. He's a good friend of my brother's, and he's been over our house for dinner a couple of times. I've talked with him a good number of times, but I don't think it's enough to call us friends. "I asked Oakley about his bangle. He told me his father had invented it. And that confused me, because why would his father _invent _a bangle, right?" Abel says.

"Right," I say, as to urge him to continue.

"Well, as it turns out, it's actually a GPS tracker," Abel continues, and he walks over to the opposite side of the room, bringing back a dark, polished wooden bedside table. He takes the bangle off and places it on the table. Then I'm caught completely off guard when he presses an invisible button, and the golden patterns on the bangle light up, casting golden light across the table. The reflection of the light creates a circle on the table it's on. But it's not just any circle. It has unusual patterns on it. On the left side of the circle, there is a tiny, glowing red dot. And I mean tiny as in, about the size of a single dot you can make with a pencil.

"How does it work?" I ask, bewildered.

"The red dot is where we are," Abel explains. "And everywhere else is the rest of the world."

I resist the urge to awe in it like a little child. Instead, I ask more questions. "And Oakley just gave it to you?" I ask.

Abel shrugs. "Pretty much. He just handed it to me, and said that his father had a sack full of these things back in the Capitol. When I said that he could keep it, he insisted, telling me that he didn't need it. So I took it."

"I had no idea the world was so... huge," I say.

He smiles. "I always knew there was more to it than us," he says, then he points to a certain section near the red dot. "See this?" he asks, and I nod. "That's District Two," he tells me. There's no disguising the excitement in his voice.

"Well, can you track people?" I ask. "Other than ourselves?"

Abel sighs. "Yeah, you can. But it's not possible without a key, or at least that's what Oakley told me."

I squint. "Key? What key?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. And neither does Oakley. He says that his father is still looking for it. But if they manage to find it, it will go right here," Abel says, pointing at the middle of the circle, where this no light. Just a blank, circular space.

"It would be amazing if we could track down other people," I say. "We could find your old house. Check out the woods."

He sighs. "I know," he says back, and his voice drops into a whisper. "And maybe, just maybe, I could find a way out of here."

I don't understand what he means, so I stay silent. He continues in his normal volume, "But we don't have enough supplies."

Suddenly, Sage's voice is in my head. _"All you'll ever need is in there. Don't forget your supply. Never forget your supply. Know what's in there, and use it wisely." _Our supply. Does that include my necklace? Slowly, I take my necklace off and hand it to Abel. "Would this do as a key?" I ask him.

He takes the necklace and eyes it peculiarly. Flipping it over, he reveals a portion that I've never seen before. On the back of the pendant, there are words engraved on it. _Unlock the questions deep in your mind, the answers with this key you will surely find, _it said. Abel and I glance at each other. Answers and a key. That's exactly what we need.

Abel fumbles with the necklace, and slowly places it on the middle of circle. The moment the necklace touches the table, Abel and I brace ourselves. Gradually, the dark gem on the pendant lights up and glows maroon. I gasp. Slowly, the glowing subsides and is replaced with golden lettering. _Taking careful risks will get you there, but first you must find the perfect pair, _it spelled.

"Perfect pair?" Abel echoes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I ponder on it. _Taking careful risks will get you there, but first you must find the perfect pair. _Perfect pair. It will have to connect with taking risks. What or who could that be? Me and Abel? But I don't see how that makes sense. It doesn't connect with taking risks. The only risk we're taking right now is potentially being caught together in Abel's locked room and forever marring our reputations. Other than that, I'd say we aren't breaking that many rules.

Then it occurs to me. This necklace isn't the only one with a dark pendant that could work as the key. There's another one. Its pair. And it's with Rita Lorkerstone. And asking for it could give away everything Abel and I are hiding. Our dream, our unusual revelation, our knowledge. It could be _risky_. Real risky.

I jump from my position on the bed.

"What is it?" Abel asks.

I snatch my necklace off of the table and secure it around my neck. "Come on," I say. "We've got to find the key."


	9. Field Day

**Author's Note: **Hey! Another day, another chapter. Right now, it is midnight and I am speed-typing just to get this posted, because tomorrow I will have no time to update and such. The rest of the week (which is the last week of twenty-oh-nine) will be devoted to celebrating the New Year. So please, if you find any typos or grammatical errors, ignore them. This chapter was a lot of fun to do. More romance than the other chapters, which is nice for a chance of mood. There's also a good amount of adventure squeezed into it for those of you who would rather have that.

Big rounds of applause to The Postal Service and Death Cab For Cutie, two bands that have cured me of my writer's block.

Happy New Year!

* * *

Golden light casts itself upon our faces. It's so bright that I have to squint and wait for the glowing to die down. When the beaming finally does abate, however, I snap my eyes open and stare at the bracelet-turned-tracker expectantly. There's a clicking sound, and then the circular golden mesh of light that we have concluded to be our world unfolds before us.

Rita Lorkerstone gasps. Yes, Rita Lorkerstone. With a lot of begging and urging, Abel and I have managed to get her involved with our little tracker dilemma in less than five minutes. Now the three of us sit around the golden tracker, locked safely in Abel's room where no one can overhear us.

"That can't be," Rita says, still taken aback. "It just can't be. That piece of jewelry of mine has been around for decades. It was from District 8. It couldn't possibly be the key to this Capitol-made tracker."

"Rita, you can see it with your own two eyes," I say. "It's the key."

Her jaw slowly drops as she leans in closer to the tracker's light. She gingerly traces with her finger the wood where the light patterns have reflected themselves upon. "Okay, if it _is _in fact the key, and if we _have _in fact unlocked the tracker, how does it work?" she asks.

To answer her question, Abel carefully hangs his hand over the light. There's another clicking sound, and the golden light gleams brighter until Abel moves his hand back. The golden mesh of reflected light then spins for a while, coming to an abrupt halt.

Then the red dot appears like it did before. But, unlike before, a picture of Abel in hologram form pops up. We all gape at it. Neither of us had seen it coming. Underneath his picture, his name is written in clear text.

"What do they do?" I say. "Keep track of all of us?"

Abel opens his mouth to speak, but suddenly, there's a buzzer sound, coming from the door. It means we're being summoned outside.

"Come on, we've got to go," Rita says promptly. Quickly, she takes her necklace and Abel presses a button on the tracker, turning it back into a normal bracelet.

Stealthily, we slip out of Abel's room. To our great relief, our luck seems to stick for today and no one is outside in the hallways to see that Rita and I have sneaked into Abel's room. Technically, it isn't against the rules to go into another person's room, but think about it: two girls inside a boy's locked room. What does that tell you? That we're playing rock, paper, scissors? I think not.

We arrive at the lobby with the rest of the students, and we immediately blend in. Act like we haven't just meddled with a tracker that could possibly be against the law to own. Rita nods at us before she wafts along to her group of friends, and I imagine that she means we've got unfinished business. We nod at her back, and Abel and I go off to stand beside my brother and his friend, Oakley Wingfield, whose dad invented the bracelet-tracker.

"What could it be today?" Oakley asks to no one in particular, running his sun-kissed fingers through his golden hair.

"I hear we're going to get to explore the arena today," Levi says excitedly. "We call it Field Day. We usually get to participate in reenactments of the Games, have some fun, that standard stuff."

Oakley snorts. "I hope so," he says. "That last 'educational' trip to Mount Felo De Se was a bunch of tedious ho-hum. I mean, where's the action in that? We're here at the site of where forty-seven kids died and all we've done is observe and hike up a stupid mountain."

I stay silent, trying to ignore their conversation. I'm not as disgusted with my brother and Oakley as I am with Clive Horton, because all they're really looking for is some fun. They think the Hunger Games is amazing, and I don't blame them because I used to think likewise, too. But that was before all of _this_.

Craning to see over the other students' heads, I finally catch sight of Clive Horton. He looks like he's going to go to camp with his dark brown collared shirt, khaki pants, and firm black leather boots. Then it hits me. His outfit is the exact same getup that they dressed the Fiftieth Hunger Games tributes in.

"Morning, everyone!" Clive greets us cheerily in his thick accent. "If you didn't already guess by my outfit, we're going to have Field Day today!"

A roar of excitement bursts forth from everyone. My brother and Oakley hoot and whistle, but the most that Abel and I do is clap, and it's only so we're not rude. Clive grins, happy to see everyone so charged up. Good thing he doesn't see the lack of interest slapped across my face. Poor guy, he must have practiced all night to be likable. He just really doesn't cross me as a type of person who loves entertaining teenagers.

Clive clasps his hands together and he smiles. "All right, everyone settle down! Here are your clothes," he says, gesturing to a table to his left with black bags atop it. Our names are written on the outside in large white font. "They're all in the correct size, I assure you. Get dressed quickly and ride the elevators up to the arena. Lunch will be arranged in the field near the Cornucopia. Until then, you may roam freely. Enjoy!" And with that, he turns around and steps into an elevator that shoots up and out of sight.

Everyone practically jumps at the mound of bags, searching for theirs. There's excited, uncontrollable chatter as they find their clothes and stream back into their rooms to change. I wait until the crowd clears, easily finding my bag and heading to my room. I lose sight of Abel, Levi, and Oakley, but I know I will find them later, so I don't bother.

I get changed quickly into the clothes. Mine are the exact same as Clive Horton's, with the dark brown collared shirt and the laced leather boots. Except, unlike his, my bottoms are khaki shorts that come up right above my knee. As I leave my room and head for the elevators, I find that the girls are wearing the same thing as I am, and the boys are wearing khaki pants like Clive's. All in all, however, we look like twins whose parents idiotically thought it was stylish to dress them all alike.

I enter and elevator and see that I'm sharing it with some of Tania Sinclair's evil minions. Now that she's dead, they're just evil, I guess. _Awkward, _I groan inwardly, because they're all staring me down like I'm their prey. But I choose to ignore them and stand my ground.

The doors of the elevator begin to close, but suddenly a hand shoots in between from the outside and they slide open again. It's Abel, all changed into a similar outfit. _Thank goodness, _I think. _Finally some sane human being. _He looks good in his arena uniform, his ocean blue eyes at extremes with his dark brown shirt.

He smiles. I think someone in the back has just swooned. "Hey," he says to me, but his eyes flicker over momentarily to the girls standing behind me. He steps in beside me with a slightly amused expression, sensing my unease with the Tania Sinclair Support Group.

"Nice shirt," I say to him in deadpan humor as the elevator doors close once again.

"You, too," he says, playing along with it for all it's worth, and then we both chuckle.

After a while, there's bitter whispering from behind us. I can faintly make out my name, and a very nasty word that would make a _bastard_ blush. The other girls giggle softly at the statement, and I'm thinking it's good that all they can see is my back, because the hurt expression forcing its way out to my face cannot be sealed. Abel glances at me concernedly, and then he surprises me when his arm winds around my waist, edging me closer until I'm leaning against him.

I look up at him, but then I realize that I never should have. His face is an inch away from mine, his blue eyes gazing at mine intently. I don't look away, though, because that would seem stupid and slightly childish.

"Ignore them, you're perfect," he mutters, but it's loud enough for everyone in the elevator to hear.

And then there, in that quiet moment, with our eyes locked and his face closer to mine than it has ever been before, something tells me we aren't just friends anymore. No, we're far, far more than that.

Then there's a soft _ting _and the elevator doors glide open to reveal a beautiful overgrowth of greenery. Abel's arm doesn't withdraw, though, as we walk together into the arena. Eventually, however, when we find my brother, he draws his arm away and stands a decent distance from me.

"Skye, Abel!" Levi calls out. He's at the mouth of the woods. "Let's go over to the river!"

We catch up to him, walking across the Cornucopia to the woods. Hardly anyone is in the woods with us. The other kids have gone to the opposite direction, toward the mountain. I hear they've set up amusement rides inside the volcano especially for us. But I'd rather have a swim in the river anyway since it's such a hot day, so I don't complain when Levi drags me into the woods.

About ten steps into the forest, a voice calls out to us. We whip our gazes backward and see that Oakley is jogging toward us. Eventually, he catches up and assumes a normal speed. "Where to?" he asks.

"The river," Abel says. "Levi wants to check it out."

"I do, too," I say. "Maybe have a little swim. It's scorching hot today."

"Kinda makes you wonder why most people would be heading for the volcano, huh?" Oakley says.

"There's an amusement ride fixed up in there," Abel explains. "Naturally, everyone would take off for it first."

Oakley makes a sound that is remotely close to a whimper. "There's an amusement ride? Why didn't _we _go there?" he whines, and I chuckle.

"Later, Oak," Levi tosses back. "It's filled to the rim with people right now. When we're done hanging by the river, we'll check the ride out. See if its worth our time."

"I bet it's sick," he says. "Hey, isn't this awesome? Everyone's over by the volcano while we're hiking through the woods. We're like, a group Haymitch Abernathy or something! Maybe Mount Felo De Se will erupt!"

I snort. "Not likely, Oak. At least not while everyone's in there. I mean, they've killed one kid. A whole group of kids is going to get them a maternal and paternal mob of haters," I say, and then I cut myself short. I meant it as a joke, but somehow the reality of it all came out. If every one of us died today, our parents would sue the Arena Engineers. But then twenty-three district kids die every year in the arenas, and yet their parents aren't allowed to speak up at all.

Thankfully, Oak and Levi don't seem to perceive it the way Abel and I do. "True, very true," Oak says, and lets out his loud laugh. Just like that, the subject is forgotten.

The rest of the trip is uneventful and I'll spare you the torture of hearing Oakley give us random and platitudinal jokes for whole extent of the thirty-minute walk. Finally, after a long while of taking the air, we break through the clearing.

The river lies right ahead, the crystalline streams rushing past the rocks and boulders that are scattered all about the area. The stream continues on for a long distance until it drops off into a small, four-foot, miniature waterfall.

Levi breaks into a run, hopping around as he unlaces and kicks off his boots and strip his shirt off. Just as he throws his shirt over his head, he reaches the edge of the clearing and he plunges into a deep end of the river with a loud howl.

I laugh, watching Levi resurface and blow water from his mouth like a whale.

"Water's great, come in!" he calls out to us.

I pull my boots off and step into the water like a human being. A pleasant shudder runs through me as the cool river water splashes against my sun-exposed skin. I'm not the best swimmer, and the water is about shoulder-deep, but I can manage. The real swimming prodigy here is Levi. He's been taking swimming classes since we were kids. I took them, too, but I never excelled as he did.

Oak and Abel only sit around, deciding against swimming. It's either they can't or they just don't want to. Levi floats around on his back, with his hands tucked behind his head. Show-off.

I swim over to the deeper part of the river, feeling slightly at unease when I can't touch the floor with my toes anymore, but eventually, I get used to it and start to enjoy the deep water. I float around, occasionally dunking my head into the water, but I mostly just flap around, satisfied to feel the water cool me.

Suddenly, something clutches onto my ankle. I suspect it's Levi at first, but then when I catch sight of him seven yards away, I start to panic.

"Levi!" I scream, feeling the thing tug me from below the surface. But he doesn't even have time to look at me before the thing pulls me beneath the surface, and into the deep murky river waters.

I open my eyes and try desperately to unlatch the thing's grip on me, but it's as hard and solid as steel. My lungs are beginning to burn, burn so badly for oxygen, and my body is weakening. Slowly, consciousness is being stripped from me. Gradually, I give a kick of finality before surrendering to the turbid depths that will offer my watery demise.


	10. Mission

Cool gusts of air brush past me, and I wrap my jacket around myself tighter. Through the branches and leaves, I can see the moon, full and beaming brightly back at me. I don't know what I'm doing in the woods at this late a time, and somehow, I can't conjure up any sort of memory of how I got here. All I know is that I'm here now, and that I am completely, utterly alone.

"Hello?" I call out, cupping my hands around my mouth as I desperately scour the woods for some sort of sign of life. "Anyone out there? Hello?"

"Skye!" The voice is loud, coming from behind me, sounding a bit surprised.

I whip around and almost have a heart attack. It's _her _again. The girl from my dream, the one who I first thought was Sage Mayflower, but later on gathered as myself. Except now, she's no little girl. She's an exact, perfectly symmetrical carbon copy of myself. Tall, in her teenaged years, looking slightly pale in the cold midnight air. It's as if I'm looking at a mirror.

"What are you doing here?" she asks me, concern across her face.

I open my mouth to speak, but I don't know what to say. "I-I-I don't know," I stutter. "Can you help me? I'm lost and I can't..." my voice trails away, hopelessness swirling inside of me. Suddenly, I feel extremely depressed. Like I know I'm about to die or something. I gulp down all the emotions and sobs threatening to push their way through my throat and I continue, "I can't remember anything," I say.

She smiles somewhat sadly at me. "Don't worry, Skye. You're all right. I'm glad you're here anyway. I've got to talk to you," she says.

"Talk to me? I don't—"

She cuts me off. "Come on, we don't have much time," she interrupts me, casting a worried glance at something behind her. She stalks up to me and loops her arm through mine, half-running, half-walking me across the woods. Because she's got me attached to her, I have to match all her long strides just to keep up.

Five minutes later, I'm panting insanely. "Where—are—you—taking—me?" I puff.

She peeks over her shoulder again, then forces her attention to the woods ahead of us. "Away," she says. "We can't be here, Skye. You can't die yet."

"Die?" I choke out, and for a moment, I stop dead in my tracks. But my strong look-alike forces me back into motion. "Who—who says I'm going to die?" I say.

"Listen, Skye," she tells me, completely ignoring my question. "You're going to go through a lot. If I don't get you out of here, you're going to die. And you can't, absolutely _can't, _die. You're extremely important. You're going to save lives."

I scowl, confused. "Save lives? You said it yourself, I'm going to die. How can I save lives if I can't even save my own?"

"You'll know," she says. "Eventually."

I glower at her, gritting my teeth. With all the strength I can muster, I wrench my arm away from hers and pull her to a stop. "I don't care whether I die or not," I growl, infuriated by her cryptic ways. She has just told me I'm going to save lives, yet she won't tell me how. "I want to know how I'm supposed to do what you're telling me to do. And I won't budge an inch if you won't explain to me, explain to me _right now, _every thing there is to know. Mysteries aside, let's speak in plain English."

She looks at me surprisedly, her eyes darting to something behind me, distressed. "Okay," she finally resorts. "I'll tell you everything, I promise. Let's just keep moving. Please, Skye. Let's go. We can't stay put," she says.

I think on it for a second, and then I nod solidly. "Okay," I agree.

The girl no longer looks worried, but scared. Terrified, she grabs my hand and breaks into a full-throttle run. Eventually, I slip my hand away from hers and pump my fists as I match every one of her strides. My wavy brown hair whips behind me as I bolt through the woods with the girl. "So, explain," I tell her in between pants.

"You're going to save everyone in the districts," she says. She's not panting, she's not huffing. She sounds like she's just talking a walk, not running a hundred miles per hour. "You're destined to help them, Skye."

"And how am I supposed to do _that_?" I yell over the roar of the wind blowing against my ears.

"You will find people," she tells me. "Powerful people, important people. Together, you will save the district people. The backpack—the one I gave you last time—has every little clue you will need. They will give you hints of who to trust. You're smart enough, Skye. You'll find them. But there is one person that you don't have to find."

"And who is that?" I ask.

She glances behind her before continuing, "It's the Mockingjay, Skye. The girl in the locket. She will reveal herself at the right time. And when she does, you will know that it is time to take over. Time to save Panem."

My mind goes back to the girl that she's talking about. The Mockingjay, she called her. The girl in the locket with olive skin, black hair, and gray eyes with her hair pulled back into a braid. Ever since the first dream, her face has been tattooed onto my brain.

"This... _Mockingjay_," I begin, panting even harder. "She's going to help me?"

My look-alike nods. "She will. She will be the icon of the rebellion. She's going to rally up the people for you. Unknown to her, of course. But you will know. And when you finally see her, do everything you can to keep her alive. She cannot die. When she dies, the rebellion dies with her."

"Why are we talking about 'the rebellion'?" I ask. "That happened nearly a century ago. It's _already _dead."

"Not _that _rebellion, Skye," she says. "It's a different rebellion. A _new _rebellion. A hopefully successful one, because the world can bear no more of this murder, this horrible act of slaying twenty-three children every year."

It dawns upon me, and, like soap clears away the dirt, everything makes sense now. My look-alike is talking about the Hunger Games. And she's telling me that I'm meant to stop it. To end it. As far as "crazy" goes, this is absolutely it. The most impossible, out-of-the-question goal has just been bestowed upon my shaky, fragile, Capitol shoulders. And, because it's my goal, it means that failure and every single life that it brings down along with it will be at my expense. No pressure, right?

"Okay, I am to keep the Mockingjay alive, is that all?" I ask her as we continue running. The woods seem endless, and so is the night.

"Basically, yes," she tells me. "That's one of your sub-goals. Your primary objective is to ensure that the rebellion lives, and that the Mockingjay lives. The Mockingjay will lead the rebellion and cause all the people to rise against the Capitol. If she is successful, the world will forever be in your debt."

"Anything else?" I ask hurriedly. I'm beginning to feel slightly disoriented, and I realize that my look-alike who's running beside me is beginning to look cobwebby. Like she's somewhat transparent. I somehow know I'm leaving again, and that I may never see this girl again.

She thinks for a moment, then says, "Don't forget the items in the backpack I gave you last time. I also gave Abel a backpack. All items in both of your backpacks will indicate the people of which your inner trust circle will be composed. Begin to plot out a plan when you find all of them. Trust each one of them completely, as doubt will only slow you down. Every time you come across one of these people, find the time to tell them about your mission. Some of them may withdraw for a period of time, but eventually, they will come back to you at the times when you need them the most. They will live to let you live, you will live to let the Mockingjay live, and the Mockingjay will live to let the rebellion live. It's that simple."

I nod, and more and more, my surroundings are gaining opacity. I feel lighter than a feather now, and I'm barely panting anymore, though I'm still running with my look-alike.

"I must leave you now," she suddenly tells me.

I whip my attention back to her. She's slowing in pace, looking slightly sad but determined. "Wait!" I call out. "Who are you, again?"

"Faun," she says, and she's farther away now, but she's screaming the words at me as tears trickle down her cheek. "I'm Faun, your twin sister!"

Twin sister? I don't have a twin sister. Do I? "Will I ever see you again?" I ask her. I want to stop running and come beside her again, and ask her more questions. But I can't stop. My body is moving, but I don't feel it.

Woefully, she slowly shakes her head as she stops in her tracks. A fresh set of tears stream down her face. "I die today. I die for you today. I love you Skye, don't forget me. Make me proud," she yells, and she disappears, the darkness eating her up. It's not just the distance anymore. She's become completely transparent, and so have the woods. All around me, it is dark, but I keep running, tears rolling down my cheeks.

Sobs rack through my body as I run in the complete darkness. I am clueless, I am lost, but most of all, I am sad. I don't understand the emotions inside of me. I'm confused, yet I'm sure that I feel as if I've just lost a close friend. And maybe I have.

Suddenly, in the far end of the darkness, there is a glowing light. It seems to be at the line of my running, and probably I'm meant to walk into it. It's strange, because you usually hear people saying, "Don't go into the light." But there's just this sort of impression inside of me that tells me I'm supposed to go into it.

I pick up the pace, bolting even quicker as I begin to approach the light. In a matter of seconds, it has eaten the darkness up completely. I keep running, but it's so bright that I squeeze my eyes shut.

Then I realize that maybe I never should have, because slowly, I can no longer feel my body. Light as a feather, I feel as if I'm flying. The feeling is so free, so wonderfully delicious, that all the cares that have just been bestowed upon me seem to be slowly fading away.

Then there's this pumping sensation in my chest. No, it's not my heart beating. It's like something is hitting my chest, where my heart is. I feel something on my lips, and air entering through my mouth. The air fills me, and I there's something leaving my lungs, passing through my throat.

A paroxysm of coughs rocks through me. The moment I stop coughing, I feel as if a hundred pounds has been taken off of me. I suck in a lungful of oxygen, and my eyes flutter open. Instantly, I am attacked by the same bright light.

Everything happens simultaneously, and as soon as my vision clears and I get used to the light, I am weak and only faintly aware of my surroundings. Blocking the sunlight in front of me is Abel's face. Even half-dead, I recognize his features. But I'm too tired and confused to speak. Thankfully, however, he must've gathered that I'm okay, and he sits back with a sigh.

"Thank God," he breathes.

"Is she alive?" a voice says. I think it's Oakley's.

_I'm okay, _I think. _Just completely wiped out. _And though I try to keep my eyes open, for Abel's sake, weariness wins out and my eyelids slip over my eyes. It's strange, though, because I feel half-awake.

"Abel! She's gone again!"

Finger trace my wrist for a pulse, and then something sits lightly over my chest for a second, and eventually, it withdraws.

"No, she's just passed out," I hear Abel say.

"Is she going to be all right?" Oakley says. He sounds shaken.

"Think so. Did you call the others?"

"Yeah, I got Clive on the phone while you went under. They're coming."

"Good. Come on, we have to leave. She's shivering."

"What about Levi?" Oakley doesn't sound shaken anymore. He sounds absolutely terrified.

There's a sigh from Abel. "I tried. I couldn't find him. Better for the professionals to give it a shot. But right now, we've got to get Skye out of here. It's too cold, and she's soaking wet. I don't want to lose her again."

"Do you need help, man?"

"No, I'll be fine."

Abruptly, the sensation of being lifted off the ground flows through me, and I feel just as free as I did while running in the woods. Slowly, I drift off into sweet unconsciousness, but not before I start to wonder of what has become of my confidant, my brother, my best friend. My Levi.


	11. Black Hole

Subconsciously, a low buzzing sound plugs my ears. The sound reminds me of bees, or even of heavy machinery. Light seeps through my closed eyelids, forcing them to flutter open. As usual, the brightness is blinding, and I involuntary lift my arm to shade my eyes, but something pins it down so it won't budge. Confused and feeling utterly crummy, I blink and squint a couple of times before my vision clears. I realize that again, I'm lying down on a hospital bed, completely clueless. Some sort of medical paraphernalia masks my face from the bridge of my nose down to my chin. I gather that it's an oxygen mask, given the slightly floral drug scent that is being pumped into my nostrils through the mask.

I glance to the left and spot Oakley and Rita sitting next to the wall, looking somewhat gloomy. A look to my right reveals Abel, sitting by my bedside. He's staring straight at me this time, not avoiding my gaze. There's no sign of levity on his face, or even relief that I've come into consciousness. His stare is cold and stone hard. I've never seen him like this before, and it's not the best thing to wake up to after going under for God knows how long.

"What?" I ask, viciousness dripping from my raspy, mask-muffled voice.

Two things suprise me. First is the pain that travels up and down my throat after speaking. I sound and feel like I've swallowed a pound of sand. The second thing that catches me off guard is my brutality towards Abel. He hasn't done anything to me so far except stare at me like I'm some sort of infamous criminal. But somehow I feel outraged at something. Like I fell asleep angry and woke up forgetting what had bothered me, yet feeling angsty.

Abel snaps out of it, like he was in a trance. Immediately, his normal, concerned expression breaks across his face.

"Nothing," he answers, sounding slightly shocked. "Feeling better?"

I'm confused with his sudden change of mood, and a little disgruntled, to be honest. Take waking up from your worst nightmare, feeling like cow dung, throwing yourself into an absolutely unfamiliar room, and staring into the eyes of death. And voila! That's just about how I feel right now.

"No," I say honestly. I feel like a mass of jumbled muscle and bones. My body is limp and aching, and don't even get me started on my head. "What happened?" I ask, my anxiety and anger starting to diminish. My parents always say I wake up cranky a lot. I guess right now is proof enough. But even as I return to my normal character, I feel as if I've forgotten something.

"You drowned," he says matter-of-factly. "Or almost, anyway. Le—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head, and then he continues, "I went under and found you. I managed to resurrect you from the dead."

"Thanks," I tell him.

"All in a day's work," he says, then he gives me a little half smile. "I've never kissed a corpse before, you know. You're my first."

I snort. "I'm touched."

He chuckles. Finally some frivolity. "Those CPR lessons weren't so useless after all," he says, trailing off as his eyes travel around the room. For the first time, I actually notice the steel floor and walls. I make out an alloy door in front of me that blends through and through with the matching walls. Everything is solid steel, except for a gigantic painting of blurry green and brown paint on the wall to the left. But after a little scrutiny, however, I realize that the paint is _moving._

It's not a painting. It's a glass widow.

I sit up. Or at least I try to. I find that I'm bound to the hospital bed by steel belts over my stomach and my arms.

"What the—" I begin.

"Here, let me help you," Abel says, pushing a button along the side of the bed. Gradually, the bed rises and folds, putting me into a sitting position.

I glance at the steel bands across my arms and stomach, and then I look back at Abel. Confused doesn't begin to cover it. "What—" I cut myself off, not knowing what to ask first. "Where are we?" I finally gag out.

Abel sighs. Unease seeps through his features. It's like he's anticipating some sort of pain. "We're on a hovercraft," he explains stiffly. "The vehicle shifts around a lot. The belts are for security... so you don't roll off your bed."

Hovercraft. Of course. That explains the moving paint.

"All right," I say slowly. "But why are we on a hovercraft?"

Abel looks away, some hardness returning to his eyes. There's a long silence before he glances back at me. "We're heading back to the Capitol. They felt there were too many deaths for it to be safe to have us stay in the arena," he says.

He pronounces it phrase-by-phrase, like there's some underlying meaning to it that I'm supposed to catch. But if I'm to be completely honest, I'm so far off the edge of density that I don't get anything he says. The only thing I catch is Oakley and Rita in the corner, looking at me strangely. My gaze shifts between them, and then it shuffles back to Abel. All their eyes contain a similar discomfort. All their eyes tell me the one thing that I've chosen to forget about, if only for a moment.

But of course, you can never avoid something forever.

"Deaths?" I choke out. "But I didn't die."

Abel nods firmly. "That's right."

"You didn't die." The voice comes from the far left corner, high-pitched and feminine. Rita Lorkerstone. "So that means someone else did," she finishes with a tiny head-bobbing motion that sends a gleaming ripple down her long and wavy carnation pink hair.

"Someone else who isn't here," Oakley adds. He sighs, the pain and defeat in his eyes evident. "Who isn't here, Skye?" he asks.

_Who isn't here, Skye? _His question rings fresh in my ears as I glance back and forth between the pair and Abel, feeling as if my mind is being blown into pieces. My breathing has hiked into crazy patterns, and my body is shaking more than it did before. This is it. I'm going insane.

"What are you three talking about?" I say, but it comes out as a hoarse whisper.

"What do you _think _we're talking about?" Abel says back.

I shake violently, and I think the only things that are holding me back are the steel belts over my arms and stomach. I shake when I am mad, when I am sad, and when I am absolutely about to kill someone. But somehow, I'm able to identify that this trembling comes from the sobs that are racking through my body.

Frustration sweeps through me. It's the only thing I know right now. I'm tired and in pain, but what kills me the most is that I know what they're talking about. I know it so well. I've known it since I first resurfaced from the murky depths of unconsciousness, but I've chosen to forget it. I wish I could. But now that these three people have somewhat directly noted it, everything bursts right in front of my face. Everything—the drowning, the final vision, the last conversation between Abel and Oakley while I was half-dead—it all surges into me, bringing one face that I've been struggling to avoid back into my memory.

Gold eyes, chocolate brown hair, and chiseled male features. The direct thought of him is all it takes to send me over the edge.

"Stop it!" I burst out shrieking. "Stop it, all of you! No more innuendos! Tell me! Just tell me who died!"

Abel doesn't look taken aback. "Fine. Your brother is dead," he says. He pauses, trying to keep his emotions in check, but through a crack, I can see that he's suffering so much more than he lets show. I'm holding back sobs, but already, I am sniffing and quivering in my bed, nodding at him violently as to urge him to continue.

"He dove after you when you drowned," Abel expounds rigidly. "He never resurfaced. I went under and found you, but Levi was nowhere. About a half hour later, some Arena Engineers and doctors and rescuers filed in. They discovered your brother's body, bloody and badly wounded."

Silent tears roll down my cheeks, and I choke out a tiny sob. Thankfully, I'm not wailing out. It's a big improvement compared to last time, when I howled like a baby when I found out Tania Sinclair was gone. But really, is this any different? Just another teenager to add up to the long list of kids they've murdered. Except this teenager just happened to be the best friend I've ever had.

The tears run dry and I soon quit crying, but I feel empty and worn out. Abel, Oak, and Rita don't even try to coo me out of the black hole I've been sucked into. They move away and leave me be. They just sit in the corner, gazing at me sympathetically. But I'm not looking for their sympathy. I'm not even looking for the feel of my brother's hand in mine, his playful punches against my frequently bruised arm. I'm looking for revenge. I'm looking to avenge Levi's death.

Nothing is for certain yet. But I do know one thing: one way or another, someone is going to die a slow and painful death. Only I'm afraid it might be me.


	12. Trust

You could read a thousand tragic books, watch a thousand hopeless movies, and die a thousand excruciating deaths, but you will never feel as dead as I do now. Words can't describe it. And it's such a drastic change, too. A month before, I was your average Capitol teenager, strolling the golden, sparkly streets with not a care in the world. Now it feels as if the entire world has been thrown on my shoulders, spiraling out of control into an abyss of oblivion.

When the hovercraft arrives at the Capitol, we are greeted by our parents. While the other kids chatter about noisily, telling their moms and dads about their trip, my parents and I slip away quietly. My father inserts the key into the ignition silently, twisting it as the car comes alive with a low buzz. And then we're off.

No words spoken, no physical contact exchanged, we arrive at our home. I lock myself in my room and no one comes to call me for dinner. I only fall asleep, wishing I will never wake.

But I do. And today, it is as sunny as ever. Out on the street, you can hear merry whistling and laughter and chatter. The average Capitol cacophony. Fazed by the daylight, I sluggishly get up from my bed and walk out the halls. Silence. The only thing I hear is the sound of my bare feet against the cool wood floor.

I head down the stairs and into the kitchen. I'm quite surprised to find that my dad sits at the table, his elbows on the table and his face buried into his palms. He's wearing his light blue, long-sleeved button up shirt with a white-and-blue striped tie, otherwise known as his uniform. Normally, he'd be at work at this time. It's not really mandatory for Capitol people to have jobs, since the only people that ever really have to thrive for food and money are the district people. But getting a job means getting more expensive and shiny stuff, so the majority of us jump at the opportunity.

I slip out of the kitchen quietly, knowing my dad wouldn't want me to see his weakness. I decide to take a walk around our garden, which is more of a field that a backyard.

The walls are made of sound-proof glass and so is the ceiling, but with a push of a few buttons, it can retract to let the rain or sunlight in. I decide to leave it closed, because I really don't want to hear any singing or laughter from outside.

In the middle of our vast garden, there's a large banapple tree that offers much shade. Its fruit is shaped like its parent, the banana, yet a little rouder. Skin colored with a deep, juicy fuschia, it practically calls out to me. I reach up and yank a fruit from one of the overhead branches and I take a seat on the ground, my back against the trunk.

I recall one memory shared with my brother right here beneath this very tree. It happened five years ago. I was twelve, he was thirteen. We had a bet on who could eat the most banapples without throwing up. I won, and afterwards, he chuckled and grinned at me, ruffling my hair with his hand. "That's my Skye," he said.

Then we both got up, laughing as I tossed a banapple peel over my shoulder.

I rise from my position on the ground, throwing the peel behind me just like I did five years ago. It's almost exactly the same, except now there's no Levi to wrap an arm over my shoulder and laugh with.

When I get back inside the house, I find my father about to walk out the front door.

"Work?" I ask in a monotone.

He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, and glances back at me briefly. There's some silence, until he finally sighs. "No," he says. "Morgue."

Then he wordlessly leaves, the door closing with a click behind him.

Five days later, I awake in my room with a startle as I hear my dad's car zooming away. He should be heading back to the morgue to finalize my brother's funeral, which will happen next week. Like I did for the past few days, I get up without a sound and head down the hallways. I pause when I see that the door to my brother's room is gaping open.

Curious, I peek in and find my mother, lying soundlessly on Levi's bed, which clearly hasn't been made since we left for the fieldtrip. Her back to me, she's curled up in a little ball, her hair anywhere but in place.

My eyes travel around the familiar room. The walls are painted a dark navy blue, the floor made of a certain dark wood. His bed sits on a platform in the far right corner of the room, and on the opposite side, there are shelves filled with boxes of Audio-Video Plates. Stick them in an AVP player, and you get a movie or some songs. We call them AV's, for short.

I walk over to my mom, taking a seat on the bed carefully. From here, I can see that she's not asleep, but wide awake. Her red, tired eyes are glued to the wall before her. She doesn't move or say anything, which is a miracle, because my mother is a fast-paced, exciting woman. I used to joke around with her and tell her to freeze for once, if only for a moment. Then she'd reply, "Well, if I stop moving, it means I'm dead."

And maybe, in some way, she is.

I gingerly run my fingers through her tousled hair as a form of endearment. She doesn't respond, but she _does, _however, close her eyes and let out a quiet sigh. I just sit there and keep brushing her hair with my hand until I'm convinced she's asleep. Just as I get up carefully from the bed, the doorbell goes off.

Wondering who it could be, I head off the get the door. Through the built-in camera, I eye carnation pink hair. I'm surprised, and I actually have to think for a moment before remembering that it's Rita Lorkerstone and that she's my friend. I've just been living in such an empty, antisocial world for the past few days that I've sort of forgotten the world that lies behind my front door.

I open up to her sad, sympathetic expression. For a moment, she just stands there, rocking back and forth on her toes and the balls of her feet. She fidgets with her hands and looks at me deplorably.

"Hey," I say, trying to put some life into my voice, but clearly, it's useless.

"Hey," she says, her voice caring and tender. "Can I come in, Skye, sweetie?"

"Uh, sure," I say, opening the door for her. She strolls in with a half-smile and I take the lead. Behind me, I hear the muted _clinks _and the _clanks _of Rita's high heels against the wooden floor as I walk us all the way to the swanky living room and take a seat on the velvety couch. She follows shortly, sitting down beside me with a sigh.

She's quiet for a while, but eventually, she clears her throat. "How are you?" she asks.

"Fine," I say.

She nods, considering it. "I know what it feels like," she tells me.

"I bet you do."

"At least you're talking," she says. "I didn't say a word until a week afterward." When I don't say anything, she blurts out, "Abel wanted to come to see you."

"Really?" I ask, but there's no enthusiasm in my voice. I still feel a little weird and alienated after five days of solitude. It's taking a lot for me to start remembering people's names and what kind of relationship I have with them.

"Really," she says. "But I managed to hold him back. Thought maybe you'd want to speak about it with someone who knows what you're dealing with."

I let my gaze drop to the floor. "I-I actually don't want to speak with _anyone_," I confess.

It takes a second for Rita to register this, and then there's a surprised expression on her face, her pink eyebrows raised high. "Well," she says, clearly a bit embarrassed. I almost feel sorry for shooing her away. Almost. "I'm sorry. I just thought..." her voice trails away.

"No, don't apologize," I quickly insert. "It's just that I need time alone, okay?"

She nods. "I understand."

We rise from the sofa and I show her to the door. But the moment she's about to step out, she pauses and turns around to face me.

"Are you going to Tania's vigil next week?" she asks me. Her surgically altered pink eyes actually look like they're begging me.

"Yeah," I say. "I'll be there."

Then she whirls around. But before she leaves, she surprises me with a hug. It lasts for a while, and she's rubbing my back in endearment, but I just stand motionless like stone. Somehow, however, I appreciate the gesture and it feels as if a little of the load has been lifted off. It's not much, but still it's better than before.

She gives me one last half-smile before hopping off our porch and sliding into her sleek silver car that zooms away at rocket speed.

If I'm to be honest with you, I'd say I'm pretty surprised that Rita Lorkerstone showed at my doorstep today. She just hasn't crossed me as a friend, let alone a close one. So her visit was a little uncalled for. But, as it turns out, she's not the only one who plans to visit me this week.

Two days later, as I'm left alone at home, both my parents out running errands for Levi's funeral, I'm pulled out of my silent misery by the doorbell. I rush over to the door, half expecting it to be Rita or Abel or even Oakley, but it's neither of them.

Standing before me is my cousin, Cinna, his dark brown hair swept all over the place, his golden eyes a bit watery. By the heavy rise and fall of his chest, it seems to me as if he's been running for a while. I'd guess he heard about Levi and came bolting all the way from his house.

Cinna is only a year older than me, but even at eighteen, he's about six inches taller. Like the rest of our family, he has no alterations. Maybe except for his signature golden eyeliner, which regretfully has never worked on myself. It looks attractive and handsome on him, though.

When you look at Cinna, you expect him to be into sports, drinking, partying, or the Hunger Games. But really, he's the exact opposite of that all. He's got an interest for sports, but never enough to bellow and cheer for his favorite team. He doesn't drink, and I believe the only parties he goes to are my and Levi's birthdays. As for the Hunger Games... I'm not sure. He doesn't show as much enthusiasm for the gore as I used to. Actually, I think the only reason he ever even watches the Games is to observe the costumes in the Opening Ceremony.

Why? Because he's a clothing designer. And a darn amazing one at that. He's not an official one yet, but he goes to a design school, and in about three years, he's scheduled to graduate. He always tells me about his plans of working as a costume designer for the Hunger Games, and I won't be surprised when one day, his work will be on stage for all to see.

It's a shame I'd be too busy being insane by then.

Cinna looks at me, a strange gloominess across his face. And believe me when I say that Cinna is _never _gloomy. Thoughtful, maybe, but not gloomy.

"Is it true?" he asks, his voice raspy.

I purse my lips and give him a prompt nod. For a while, we only stand there, silently staring at each other. We let our eyes say the words that we can't bear to pronounce.

After what feels like an eternity, he opens his arms wide, and I walk into him. I surprise myself when, suddenly, face muffled by Cinna's chest, I start crying. Crying like you wouldn't believe. Crying so hard that I start having the worst case of hiccups in the history of humanity.

I could tell you about how embarrassed I feel to have let out so much emotion, but the truth is, it feels good. It feels good to let someone know you can't bear it, that you're hurting so much inside but you don't know how to show it. To let someone know that you're human and subject to pain. And, in this case, Cinna is the perfect someone for that job.

He leads me into my own home and sits me down on the very couch Rita and I had used a few days back. And he just holds me. Holds me as I bawl out, hiccup, and soil his fresh white button-down shirt with my tears. To say that Cinna is awesome would be an understatement.

Ten minutes, thirty, and finally an hour passes. Or so it feels like it. The sobs have died down, and Cinna and I sit quietly on the couch next to each other. He has his arm over my shoulder, and I lean against him.

"How'd you find out?" I eventually ask. My voice is absolutely awful. I might as well have looked like a croaking frog and Cinna wouldn't be any more surprised.

He sighs. "My parents. Your parents stopped by our house, the usual drill."

Of course. Here in the Capitol, when someone dies, the family mourns in solitude for seven days, and then they spread the news to close relatives, friends, and colleagues afterwards. It's considered unlucky to tell anyone outside the direct family of a person's death before the end of the seven days. Not that it really matters. Luck hasn't been on my side for the past few weeks anyway, so why bother?

"How did your parents take it?" I ask.

Cinna shrugs. "I don't know," he says. "I stormed off as soon as I heard them." When I don't reply, he lets out a little sigh. "I thought I'd come to you for an answer." Then he gestures at his soaked white shirt with a half-smile. "Never thought you'd respond like you did," he tells me. "Usually, you're really sunny and happy and positive about things. You never cry, not even about the saddest things. You used to be our little Clear Blue Skye. Always offering a brighter tomorrow."

I snort. "People change, or haven't you heard?"

"That's true," he admits. "I just didn't expect _you _to be one of those people."

"Expect the unexpected," I say.

He eyes me weirdly. "Well, then, doesn't that make the unexpected expected?"

I only give him a strange look, and we hold each other's gazes for a moment, until we break it off, chuckling.

Yeah. _Chuckling. _People, I have officially crossed over to the bipolar side.

Our laughter dies down, the sad silence settling down upon us again. Luckily, before it gets too depressing, Cinna shoots up from his seat and gestures to the kitchen.

"Tea or milk?" he asks.

I smile. "Both," I say. Milk tea is something Cinna, Levi, and I discovered six years ago. We were three young kids in a large kitchen with nothing to do. The result? A room cloaked with every kind of ingredient you could imagine, and a cup of the most delicious substance we'd ever tasted. Lo and behold, _milk tea._

As Cinna sets a warm mug of milk tea before me, he stirs his own and sits down at the counter. For a while, we drink our teas in silence, until Cinna lets out a weird, almost bitter, chuckle.

"I remember this crack," he says, his fingers tracing the chap on the dark marble counter.

I smile. Two smiles in two weeks. I'm on a roll. "You and Levi wanted to play bowling with Dad's heavy bowling balls. You thought the countertop was ideal for the lanes," I say, mind wandering to the old times.

He gives me a half-smile. "The good days. Don't you miss it?"

"Terribly," I frown, taking a sip of my tea.

"What does it feel like?" Cinna asks me after a beat of silence. "To lose someone, I mean," he continues. "I've never lost a sibling before. Not that I have any in the first place."

I sigh. "Feels like the end of the world. But not in a way that makes you bawl out in pain, but rather, the end of the world in the sense that you stop living, or wish that you could stop living. I know that I do. I go to sleep and beg with fate that I will never again wake. But whether I like it or not, the day comes, and so does the emptiness."

"Is it too much if I ask you what happened in the arena?" he says, an expression of pure curiousity mixed with a little guilt across his face.

"Nah," I say. "It doesn't change a thing anyway. What do you want to know?"

"I want to know how Levi died," he admits.

"So do I," I tell him. "But I was too busy drowning." The look of sudden interest on Cinna's face urges me to continue. "We were swimming in the river," I say. "Then I felt something tug on my leg. I went under. The next time I woke up, I was half-dead, and Levi was gone."

"Wow," Cinna sighs. "That's really hard. I never expected it to be like that. Mysterious, wouldn't you say? It just doesn't make sense. Why would something be tugging on your leg, and why would Levi die? It just perplexes me..."

Cinna goes on talking, but somehow my mind is not following his words. Because something else has stolen my attention from him. Something peculiar that glints in the sunlight that's filtering through the window. Something that's dangling around his neck. Golden. Circular. Thick.

It's a locket. But not just any locket.

It's the one that was in my backpack. The one in my dream.

The one that signifies its owner is someone who I can trust, possibly with my life.


	13. Letters

The world goes in and out of focus, fluctuating like you wouldn't believe. My gaze shifts from Cinna. His never-ending, never-ceasing, blabbering mouth. The golden locket that hangs loosely around his neck. The accessory sways left to right subtly as Cinna animatedly speaks.

I zero in on the accessory. The intricate design carved on it grows more and more into focus. My heartbeat is drumming so hard in my chest that I can practically hear it. I stiffen like the blood in my veins have been made into ice. Parts of my dream flash before my eyes. Abel. The backpack. Faun. The locket. The rebellion. The Mockingjay. They all flash repeatedly, gaining speed, taking all of my attention, until such time I cannot hold it in anymore.

"Where'd you get that?" I blurt out so suddenly, Cinna is surprised into silence.

_Smooth, _I sigh inwardly. _How very smooth indeed._

Cinna blinks, then he squints at me. "Get what?" he says, fully perplexed.

I nod toward him. "The locket. Where'd you get it?"

He looks down at the necklace whose pendant rests against his chest. He takes the charm between his thumb and forefinger. "This old thing?" he says. "I got it two months ago. Didn't you listen when I told you about it?"

I draw a blank. _Uh-oh. _Okay, admittedly, I never _have _truly listened to Cinna while he chatters about what's hot and what's not, and whatever else Cinna chatters about. It's just that, when he gets going, he lets it rip at such fast a pace that I don't even _try _to keep up.

"Remind me again?" I say a little too innocently.

He chuckles and then gives the locket a little squeeze. It pops open, and I half expect to find the Mockingjay's picture in it. But it's empty. Of course. What did I think? That Cinna is just coicidentally best friends forever with the girl that is destined to lead the nonexistent (for now) rebellion? _Yeah right._

"I got it two months ago, like I said," he explains. "It was at this shop on Celestial Street. I thought I'd get it for myself, since it seemed pretty."

I nod. That's less than interesting. "Well, why's it empty? Surely, the only reason you'd buy a locket is to actually put pictures inside of it, right?"

He shrugs. "I'm saving it."

"For?" I urge.

"Someone," he says. "I don't know him or her yet, but I _will _be his or her designer, and he or she will be my first masterpiece. They'll go into the Hunger Games, and I will have saved something to remember them by. A picture... right in here," he finishes off his melodramatic speech, snapping the locket closed ostentatiously.

Despite the solemness of this whole situation (also known as my finding another member of the _Hey-Let's-Get-Rid-Of-The-Hunger-Games _alliance) and the fact that my brother has just died, I can't help but chuckle at Cinna.

"That's really... interesting, Cins," I say, for a lack of a better word. "Truly interesting."

He purses his lips and looks at me expectantly. "Skye?" he says slowly.

"Yes?" I say in the same manner.

"You couldn't care less about my locket, could you?" he says amusedly.

I shrug, and I don't say anything. Partly because he is totally, utterly wrong; I couldn't care _more _about his locket. And also because, now that the adrenaline has piped down, I'm starting to feel like I'm falling into the deep hole that my brother's death has dug up again.

Cinna stays at my house for long while. We finish our teas, watch a good movie, and eventually, it starts getting dark and he has to leave. I've enjoyed his company, but the truth is, I'm so exhausted. I've been trying to make myself at least a little worth talking to. Moodswings have been my closest companion today; sometimes I want to be happy and forget everything, but when I finally reach that climax of breaking through the sadness, Levi's face drowns my consciousness and I fall back into the dark hole of depression. Anyway, I shouldn't be happy. Levi died because he tried to save me. Abel would've died, too, if it wasn't for his luck. I'm the cause of all this tragedy. I'm to blame. Lucky I didn't wipe out my entire class.

When Cinna leaves, I don't know what to do. It's only six in the evening, and I've got the house to myself. For a while, I only sit at the living room, staring at a life-sized portrait of me, my parents, and Levi that's on the wall opposite the couch. My brother and I are on either side of our parents in the painting, and we're all smiling happily. We had this painted not too long before the fieldtrip.

My lips quiver, and finally, I can't take looking at it anymore. I burst out sobbing, mucus and tears indistinguishable from each other. Why did I have to take that swim? Why did I have to have such horrible luck? Why didn't _I _die instead of Levi? I deserve to. I should have. It was me that little accident was after in the first place. It was meant for _me_. I should be dead now. And I wish I was. Anything is better than this... this zombie-like living. Anything. _Even death._

Suddenly, I'm angry, not sad, about my entire situation. I shoot up from the couch and bitterly stalk up to the painting. I scrutinize every detail, every color, every feature. My fingers trace the delicate canvass made rough by dried paint. I let my hand pass over Levi's dark hair, and I imagine him smiling at me. Imagine his lively grin. His undeniably amazing, sparkling, intelligent eyes.

"That's my Skye," I imagine him telling me with a proud beam. "That's my sister."

The vision softens me, and his voice, still ringing in my ears, induces a fresh set of tears to roll down my cheeks. But soon enough, the happy thought turns into a bitter memory. Enraged, I slam my fist into the canvass. Right on my face. The frail material breaks and my knuckles meet the wall behind the painting. But this isn't enough to satisfy me.

I knock the giant picture off the wall and on to the ground. I grab the first thing I can find with my hands and throw it with all my might down at the painting. By the flying glass pieces, some water, and a bunch of roses that scatter all across the painting, I gather that I've just destroyed my mother's favorite crystal vase. And those flowers may well be the freshly-picked roses from my mother's garden.

But I don't care about the vase and I most certainly don't care for the flowers. I grab something else from another pedestal. It's a glass sculpture of some kind of bird. A jabberjay, perhaps? I don't know. All I know is that it's not going to be in one piece for any longer.

I head up the stairs and into what was Levi's bedroom. The dark blue interior and plush furniture speaks of my brother well. And the place still smells like him. Musky, a little. I take a whiff of his scent, and then, without another doubt, I send the glass sculpture flying toward Levi's little bedside table. The sculpture collides with a small frame that houses a picture of me and my brother. The picture was taken a long time ago, maybe five years ago. But it doesn't really matter, because when the sculpture takes down the frame to the ground with a sound of crashing glass, the picture is no more.

But there's another sound; not crashing glass. It sounds heavy and solid when it collapses down to the wooden floor. With a scowl on my face and some curiousity, I peek behind the table and find a dark, wooden box. It's lying on its side on the floor amongst the broken glass, its hinged lid hanging open against the ground.

A peach-colored envelope spills out from the box, and some other trinkets that I've never seen before. I gather them all and place them back into the wooden box, setting it on my lap as I take a seat on Levi's bed.

I've never laid eyes on this box before, even though I've been inside Levi's room for more times than I can count in my lifetime. Probably because it was hidden behind that picture frame. Either way, it's free for me to have now.

I wipe a tear from my cheek with the back of my hand and then dig into the box. I pull out the peach envelope. It has Rita's name on the outside, written in Levi's edgy handwriting. I clear my throat and flip the top flap open, slipping out the clean stationery.

Unfolding it, I let out a sigh as I behold the letter.

_Dear Rita,_

_I know that I've never spoken to you that much before, but I knew it from the first time I heard your beautiful laughter that I loved you. And it wasn't just that, either. It was the way you handled yourself, the way you smiled, the way you moved like you were skating across the surface of a winter-frozen lake. I constantly find myself amazed by you. I guess it's safe to say that I've completely fallen for you._

_I remember that day in science class. We were partners for one activity, and I asked you what your favorite part about school was. I thought you'd answer something that involved your friends, or even a particular class. But you replied, with a thoughtful smile, "I like learning, and I like school for itself. It pushes me to be a better person. More determined, more able to take on the world."_

_Right then, I knew I was a goner._

_I've never felt for someone like I do for you. The average guy would tell you that he wanted you; but I'd tell you that I wanted you to be happy, with or without me. If you don't think of me the way that I think of you, don't worry about it. Live as you did before receiving this letter. I won't mind seeing you with someone else, though honestly it would make me break a little. But I'd still have a smile on my face if I knew you were truly happy._

_Maybe you haven't noticed me staring at you from a distance. Maybe you haven't heard my heart beating frantically when you're near. Maybe you haven't caught how you take my breath away ever single living moment. Maybe you don't love me like I do you. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe I'll love you anyway._

_Levi Reese  
_

I sigh and close my eyes. Tears silently roll down my cheeks. My lips quiver again, threatening to let out a loud paroxysm of sobbing. But before I can let myself start again, I fold the letter back on itself neatly and place it inside the envelope, pressing a hand against my mouth to keep the sobs in.

I feel guilty, so terribly guilty. It was me. This was all me. The reason why Rita will never know Levi well. The reason why Levi will never get to live a life with Rita. The reason why my parents have lost their only son. I'm the reason why Levi's dead.

I angrily wipe my tears away and dig deeper into the box. Peering through the coppice of trinkets and memorabilia, my hand stops cold on one particular item. The material feels square, the texture soft and velvety. I pull it out from the box and find that it is a jewelry box of some sort. Not something you'd find in a boy's room unless he planned to propose to the love of his life.

_Oh no, _I think, dispirited. Is it a ring meant for Rita? Did my brother want to _propose_ to her? Did he plan on marrying her?

The answer to these questions I dread so much, but I have to know. Slowly, cautiously, and almost terrifiedly, I open the top lid and peek into the jewelry box. I suck my breath in with a gasp as I lay my eyes on the most beautiful piece of jewelry I've ever seen.

It's a necklace with a white-gold chain, the charm a smooth, cool, obsidian rock. When you first see it, you think it's black. But then when you hold it up to the light, it turns out to be made of swirly patterns of dark brown and amber. It's beautiful, but definitely not an engagement ring.

If this is supposed to be for Rita Lorkerstone, then I'm going to have to admit I'm jealous. I mean, it's amazing. Literally. I sigh and put the necklace back into the container, but then I spot a tiny, folded piece of paper stuck to the roof of the velvet box.

Curious, I take it out and unruffle it.

_Skye,_

_Happy eighteenth birthday! I wouldn't trade you for anything in the world, little sister. I'd give up my own life if it meant saving yours._

_Levi_


	14. One Rule

I sit alone in our kitchen with Levi's gift—the beautiful, charming necklace—secured around my neck. On the counter before me is an untouched mug of milk tea, which has failed to console me for the first time in history. In my hand is Levi's note to me, crumpled into a clump of paper. And in my heart is the heaviest emotion anyone can bear. Silently, tears roll down my cheeks, but I neither wipe them away nor sob my guts out.

"Hi, honey."

It comes from behind me. The voice takes me by surprise, but I don't show it. Slowly, I turn my head to face the speaker, and find that my mother stands at the doorway. Her beautiful blonde hair is tied up into a messy bun and her ocean eyes are glassy with unshed tears. For the first time since the fieldtrip, I take a really good look at her, and I realize that she looks older than she did a month ago. Her features seem to be inset with deeper wrinkles. The skin around her mouth is the only place where wrinkles come at a deficiency, and I think it's because she hasn't smiled in a while.

I force a half-smile out, and then I look away, re-entering my trance.

"That's a pretty necklace," Mom says. If she's seen what I've done to the family portrait in the living room, she doesn't show it.

"Thanks."

"Where did you get it?"

"I didn't. It's a gift."

"Oh?" She sounds genuinely surprised. "From whom?"

I chew on my lip for a while, but eventually I blurt out, "From Levi."

It's so quiet that I think Mom might have left already, but then I hear her shallow breathing. No, actually, _gasping _sounds like a more appropriate word. Great, now I feel sorry for saying the necklace came from Levi. I play with the obsidian rock in my hand, letting my fingers fumble across the charm's cool, smooth surface. And almost immediately, I feel relaxed.

"That's right," my mom chokes out. She swallows down the lump in her throat. "He bought that for your eighteenth birthday."

I nod soundlessly. Now that she's actually mentioned it, I realize it's almost my birthday. It's only a couple of days before I say goodbye to _seventeen _and hello to hell. In the Capitol, once you're eighteen, you're obliged to move out of your home. Not that it's a bad thing, either, because we all know that the government provides for all our needs. They'll give me a nice house anywhere in the city I choose. And, besides providing my food budget and school tuition fee, they will also give me a large allowance to splurge. And I mean _large _as in, don't spend a penny for three weeks and you'll be able to buy a houseful of emeralds. Basically, in the Capitol, you don't have to work a day of your life.

Sounds amazing, doesn't it? I bet you think I _want _to move out. Actually, I did. But that was before the entire fieldtrip. Now all I want to do is stay at home. Unfortunately for me, however, moving out is mandatory.

"Hey, Mom," I say, a thought striking a hope in me.

"Yes?"

I hesitate for a moment, but I let it all out. "How come Levi didn't leave us last year? He turned eighteen. It's mandatory to leave, isn't it?"

It's silent again, and I wonder if made a mistake by mentioning Levi. But seriously, why hadn't I realized that sooner? Why didn't I realize Levi was still with us? I glance over my shoulder at my mom and see that she has stiffened. There's a look of horror in her blue eyes, and for a split second, neither of us move.

Then she rushes over to the counter and takes a seat in front of me. Guilt, fear, and reluctance cloak her features as she leans in. Her voice drops an octave as she speaks, "Skye, I have to tell you something. But you have to promise—promise as if your life depended on it—not to tell anyone."

I nod slowly, trying to process the quick change of atmosphere. "Okay, I promise. What is it?"

Mom holds my gaze and then lets out a sigh. "Your brother did something six years ago. Something bad. The government didn't like it, and they sentenced him to perpetual probation. They wouldn't allow him to leave the home when he turned eighteen. They said he'd have to live with us for the rest of his life as a consequence."

Consequence? Something bad? Levi? The words don't click. Levi never does _anything _bad. He's known as the nicest guy in school—or in town, for that fact. What could he have done to make the government think he was dangerous enough to let loose?

"What—what do you mean, _something bad_?" I stutter. "What did Levi do?"

The expression on Mom's face changes from vexed, to confused, to sad. "I don't know, Skye. All they told me was that he wasn't allowed to live on his own. When I asked why, they didn't answer. They only said that they were letting him off the hook with a warning, but…"

"But?" I urge.

"But if he ever tried anything," she continued, her voice getting choked up with tears. "They'd arrest him and turn him into an Avox."

I gasp and sit back, digesting everything. An Avox? That's impossible. You only get turned into an Avox for committing some great felony. So, if they threatened to turn Levi into an Avox, that would mean he did something. Not just bad, but unspeakably horrible.

"Did… did Levi ever tell you what he did?" I ask.

Deplorably, my mother shakes her head slowly. "No, Honey. He wouldn't speak to me about it. He wouldn't speak to me about anything."

"Why didn't anyone tell me? Why didn't I even catch it?"

"Sweetheart, you were eleven, merely a child," Mom explains. "And we never spoke about it. Not even between ourselves. But your father and I… we were horrified. We thought Levi would get in some sort of trouble soon enough. That's why we were ecstatic when we found out that they allowed him to go to on the fieldtrips. We'd thought everything was patched up between the government and Levi, but then… this happened."

At first, I don't understand what my mother means by _this_, but then I realize it.

She means Levi's death.

It's preposterous, of course, to assume that the Capitol purposed for Levi to attend the fieldtrips simply to kill him off. But Mom's on to something here. Could it really be? Could the Capitol have hated Levi so much that they decided, with a push of a button, that my brother was no longer worthy of life? It makes sense. More sense than anything else has for the past few weeks.

But then, if they killed Levi off for something he did, why did Tania Sinclair die as well? Did she do something to strike the government's anger, too? Maybe. But the idea is so far-fetched, given how totally into it Tania was. She loved the Capitol. She wouldn't dare do anything to offend them.

Would she?

But here's another thought. Here in the Capitol, we're pretty liberated. I mean, we're a bunch of people that stand idly by and even indulge in seeing twenty-three teenagers being killed off annually, and you expect us to have rules? We have none, except for one rule that doesn't even matter, because nobody has dared (or wanted) to defy it before. It's one rule, unspoken but understood. One rule that no one has ever broken before. One rule that upholds the entire system of Panem.

One rule which has become my life's mission to disobey.

I know for sure that, had the government known of my plans for a rebellion, I would be arrested no matter how petty I seemed. So had Levi—and maybe even Tania—partaken of that very same duty I feel obliged to accomplish?

I shoot up from the counter so quickly that my mom jumps back with a start.

"What is it?" she asks, horror-stricken.

I shake my head, maybe a little too much. "Nothing," I assure her, though it's anything _but_. "I just… I need time to think." Then I walk out of the kitchen swiftly, swiping my car keys off the table in the anteroom and my coat that hangs off the stand beside the door.

I've only just turned the door knob when my mother calls out my name.

"How long are you going to be gone?" she asks me.

I shrug. "As long as I need to." I feel bad, so horribly bad for leaving my mother like this, but I have to talk to Abel…

Mom nods, and then she looks as if an idea has just struck her. "Wait," she yelps, getting down on her knees and reaching into an antique wooden treasure chest that sits under the counter in the anteroom. She pulls out a cellphone, slim and black.

"Here, have this," she tells me, shoving the device into my hands. "It was Levi's. Our numbers are there. You can reach us whenever you need to."

I slide it into my pocket, and I give a small nod. Then I slip out of our home and into the cold evening air. The weather's starting to get colder today, and I suspect it's because we've just begun the month of September. However, we're all really used to it; since the Capitol City is sited amongst mountains, the weather is always a bit chilly.

I slip into my sleek, silver car, twisting the key into the ignition. The vehicle comes alive with a nice purr that I haven't heard in a while. This car has been one of the largest sources of nostalgia and sadness for me since my arrival from the fieldtrip (Levi taught me how to drive with this car), but now's not the time to be picky. I have to get to Abel with what I've gathered—fast.

If only I knew where to find him.

As I drive away from my home and closer to Main Street, I rack my mind for any information I could possibly have concerning Abel's whereabouts. Just as I'm taking a right turn into the City Proper, it occurs to me that I have Levi's phone.

Levi and Abel were good friends. So, he should have his number, right?

I brake by the sidewalk with a screech and dig into my pocket for the phone. I search Levi's contacts, and sure enough, there's _Abel Harter _written in clear text. I don't hesitate. My thumb taps the touchscreen and place the phone against my ear.

One ring. Two rings. Three. Four… five.

I'm about to abort the call, when suddenly, the ringing comes to an abrupt stop.

"Hello?" It's Abel, of course, and he sounds a little skeptical. He's probably having doubts about his sanity at this moment. I mean, he's just received a call from his dead best friend's phone. Who wouldn't get a little weirded out?

"Abel," I say. "It's me."

A sigh. "Yeah, Skye, of course," he says, sounding relieved and a little disappointed. His tone quickly softens. "How… How have you been?"

"Fine," I reply promptly. "But that's not why I called, Abel. We need to talk."

"Sure," he says. "Go ahead."

I shake my head, though he can't see me. "No. I was thinking… in the flesh. Where are you?"

He sounds hesitant. "I, uh, I'm by the woods."

"The woods?" I echo, taken by surprise.

"Yeah," he tells me. "Latitude 39.20742, Longitude 105.3123."

I enter the coordinates into the car's built-in GPS, and then a red dot appears a couple of minutes west of the City Proper. It's not too far away—fifteen miles, more or less.

"Meet you in about twenty minutes. Maybe fifteen if there's no traffic," I say. "Stay where you are."

I toss the phone on the passenger's seat and zoom off. Luckily for me, there aren't a lot of drivers on the road tonight, and I'm able to pass the City Proper in only five minutes. I'm going about 150, maybe 160 kilometers per hour, but that's not inconspicuous back here. Everyone in the Capitol drives fast. It's just the way we roll.

Minutes of driving pass until the green dot on the GPS that represents my current location is practically right on top of the red dot. I slow down into a cruise and peer through the tinted glass. For a while, I squint and glance everywhere for Abel, but then I catch sight of him. He's in a dark coat, absolutely pale in the cold weather, leaning against an edgy, shiny black car.

When he sees my car, he pushes himself off and follows my vehicle with his eyes intently. I park right next to Abel's car and climb out, giving him a brief nod of acknowledgement. We're all business today, and I can tell that he knows it as well. For a few seconds, we only stare at each other silently.

I don't say anything; I only look at him. It's been quite a while since I've last seen him, and it almost feels weird staring at his ocean blue eyes again. Weird in a good way. Already I feel myself relaxing, going back to the old, measured Skye that I was before—not the crazy, berserk one that has just punched through her family portrait and thrown glass sculptures everywhere.

"You sounded pretty serious on the phone," he finally breaks the silence.

"I am," I say. "I've got some information I'd like to share with you." I suddenly remember the dream—or was it a vision?—that I received that day Levi died in the river. The vision that I got while I was unconscious. The one about the Mockingjay. "And I forgot to tell you about another dream," I quickly add.

"Important?" he asks. I can tell by the way he says the word that he means _important _as something that could get us arrested.

I nod. "Important."

"Well, then," he says with a hint of a smile. "Let's have it."

I tell Abel about I've gathered about Levi and Tania, about what my mother said concerning Levi's perpetual probation. I explain about how I feel Levi might've done something against the Capitol for him to be hated by the government. Something remotely close to what _we're _doing. And then, as a little bonus to the whole _Let's-Thwart-The-Capitol _plan, I tell him of my latest dream—the one where Faun told me of my mission.

The entire time, Abel doesn't interrupt me. His eyebrows occasionally scrunch together in either confusion or contemplation, but he doesn't say anything.

When I'm done explaining, I take a deep breath and eye him expectantly. He seems to be mulling over all of this, almost a little doubtful. But I see through his eyes that a hope has been sparked inside of him—a hope of a gnarly adventure.

About a minute passes before he finally seems to be done thinking.

"I think you've got a point, Skye," he says. "I hope you do. We could really all live without—" He cuts himself short, and he squints suspiciously, slowly turning his head to the right.

"What?" I ask, my voice dropping to a whisper.

He walks over to the mouth of the woods and I follow closely. We peer into the mesh of trees, branches, and leaves. It's dark enough out here since it's evening time, but it's almost pitch black in the woods.

"What is it?" I ask again.

He only stares at the darkness, but eventually he sighs and shakes his head. "Nothing. I just thought—"

Have you ever heard of a blitzkrieg before? If you haven't, it's a term that means _lightning war_. Basically, the next thing that happens would be under the classification of _blitzkrieg, _because before Abel can actually finish his sentence—before I can even scream—four tall and dark figures have surrounded the both of us. Two of them inject us with a syringe whose intents I can't see in the dark, but by the feel of it, I'm pretty sure it's the same sloppy purple liquid that knocked me out in the arena.

The pain only lasts for a moment. Then I pass out.


	15. Execution Center

The next time I'm awake, I find myself in a pitch black room. No, it's not a room. It's shaking a lot, bouncing up and down slightly. Possibly a vehicle, but it's too unstable to be a hovercraft. It smells of wet metal and rain. I'm lying on my back on some kind of cold surface with grooves and elations interchanging. I grunt and moan as I attempt to gather my bearings, but my heavy head and groggy eyelids aren't helping at all.

"Skye?"

The voice is raspy, heavy with stupor. I recognize it faintly as Abel's voice, but I'm not entirely sure.

"Abel?" My voice is just as bad.

"Yeah, it's me," he says. I try to locate his voice; it seems to be coming from my left, a couple of feet away. I can't see through the darkness, though, and I can't will myself to stand and try to find him, either. "Are you okay?"

"If, by okay, you mean feeling like one piece of raw meat, then yeah," I say. I have to say, I'm surprised with myself. Here I am, in who knows where with who knows what, and yet I have the audacity to strike the conversation with irony.

There's a groan of pain. "Hey, at least you're in one piece, right?"

"Always the optimist."

He chuckles, but it sounds weird, almost like he's in pain. "Do you have any idea where we are?" he asks me.

"No. I don't even know what happened."

There's a sigh. "This is all my fault."

Surprised by his blaming himself, I sit straight up, but immediately wish I hadn't. My spine is on fire. I let out a hiss and drag myself forward, looking for something soft to lean on, but apparently there's nothing. My head collides with a wall, however, and right now, this seems to be the best thing I have.

"Skye?" Abel asks, fear seeping into his tone. "Are you all right?"

I don't say anything, partially because I'm _not _all right, and half because I'm too busy getting myself to sit up. I squirm until I get into a position by the wall that's as cozy as it can get.

"What are you talking about, all your fault?" I finally reply, sounding a little out of breath.

"I dragged you into the woods."

I sigh. "Technically, we weren't _in _the woods. Just near it. And also, I was the one who called you in the first place. Don't blame yourself. We were going to get arrested either way."

He's quiet for a moment, but then he says, in a humored voice, "Good point."

"I just wish they had arrested us later," I whine. I sound like a five-year-old girl asking for something she can't have. "You know, maybe after we've actually committed the crime?"

"That's how they work," Abel says. "They're always a step ahead, Skye. We should have known."

"But how did they find out in the first place?" I ask, fully confused. "I don't get it. We haven't even told anybody about it yet. We've shown Rita your bracelet-tracker, but that couldn't have hinted anything, could it?"

Silence. Nothing but the sound of something rumbling underneath us.

"Abel?" I urge.

"I told Oakley," he groans. He sounds like he's giving himself a mental slap.

I'm about to reassure him that it isn't actually his fault, but then the room we're in careens so far left that I fly forward. Fortunately, I land on something other than metal; unfortunately, judging by the pained grunt, it might be Abel.

"You're heavy," he says, out of breath, confirming my speculation.

I'm not given the chance to say anything back, because there's a screeching sound, like metal rubbing against metal, and then semi-blinding light that seems to be coming from four different flashlights. For a moment, I'm squinting and half confused. After a few blinks, however, I gather that I am draping over Abel, who's lying on his back with an expression that suggests he's barely repressing a groan of agony.

"Sorry," I say in a small voice and will myself to sit up.

"Skye Reese and Abel Harter?" asks a deep, masculine, basso voice that practically leaves me shivering with fear. A beam of light meets my face and I raise a hand over my eyes to shade them. I try peering through the light, but I can't see the speaker. Though honestly, I'm not sure I want to.

Abel groans as he sits up. "That's us." I'm surprised with how steady his voice is. Probably, he realizes we're going to die anyway and there's no way out. I know I'm beginning to.

"We have received strict orders to deliver you here safely and confidentially," says another man with a slightly less bass voice than the last, but that doesn't make him sound any less frightening. "I will have to request you to step out of the vehicle and follow us. If you cooperate, this will all go by faster."

_Go by faster? _He means our deaths, surely. I look over at Abel, and obviously, he catches this, too. We don't fight the men when they pull us out, however; like they said, it'll all go by faster. And I'd pick a quick death over any other.

When we get out of the vehicle, I only catch the words _Alliance Incorporated: Your ideal receiving company _written on the back of the truck before the men prod us forward. All four of the men are dark-skinned, tall, muscular, and bulky. They wear tight black shirts that seem to cleave on their macho-man structures. Two of them walk in front of Abel and I, and the remaining two walk behind us. Basically, we're fried fish. No way out.

The men walk with us in silence until we see a large, oval-shaped building—maybe six stories high—with shiny glass windows that look like facets of a gigantic diamond. Large, glowing, holographic text on top of the whole building greets us. There's that name again: _Alliance Incorporated. _The light that gleams from the inside of the building suggests that it is busy, even at this time of the night.

When we enter the building through the automatic doors, I find that I have not gone wrong; it _is _a busy place. Everywhere, there are men and women in teal uniforms walking briskly with either piles of boxes atop their arms, two cellular phones against both ears, or a clipboard that they seem to be preoccupied with. Nobody is idle.

I give Abel a confused look. "Where are we?" I mutter, so only he can hear.

He frowns. "I don't know. It's not how I expected Execution Centers to be." The name basically explains itself; every Avox, every criminal, every rebel—they've been to an Execution Center before. It's where a panel of Peacekeepers will determine one's fate: death, or something worse—penal servitude that will last your entire lifetime.

We keep following the two men ahead of us, and they lead us past the main lobby and down a fairly wide hallway with large portraits of people I've never seen on either wall. At the end of hall, there's this large archway that seems to be rigged with metal detectors and security weapons. A woman stands before the archway, but she doesn't look like a security guard. She surely isn't dressed as one.

Her gray pencil skirt is hiked up mid-thigh, and her matching jacket suit is cloaked over a white, silky blouse with lace across the top. The woman's skin is tinted pale blue—very pale that it almost looks white—and her long, snow white hair is held back to perfection by a headband. Numerous diamonds are encrusted into her skin like vines coiling around her arms and legs and even her face. She's beautiful and sparkly to say the least, I'll admit, but she looks absolutely freaky.

The woman is talking to some employee, arguing fervently. When she eyes us, however, her face clears into a seductive smile. At first, I'm confused and admittedly a bit frightened, until I remember Abel. Of course. A woman could be old enough to be Abel's mother, and they'd _still _flirt with him.

"Maybe if you flirt with her," I mutter to Abel. "You can keep her preoccupied while I try to find a way out of here."

Of course, there's no way out of here. I know it's a lost cause, and I'm only joking.

Or am I?

Abel gives a half-smile. "I'd rather die than get with some Capitol woman," he tells me.

For some reason, my spirits get a little deflated at his response. I wonder why, until I realize that _I'm _a Capitol woman. Or a Capitol teenager, at least, but that doesn't make a difference. Does that mean that Abel can't take a preference to me? Could be. Not that it should bother me at all. But it does.

"Good, then," I say, forcing my awkward thoughts back into the hellhole they came from. "Because if we don't find a way out of here, then you just _might _die."

"Thank you," he deadpans.

"You're very welcome."

The men in black (as they will henceforth be referred to) stop dead in their tracks before the woman. She gives them a pleasant smile, but her gray eyes gravitate toward Abel.

"Well, what's this?" she asks, her voice extremely similar to a purr. Her Capitol accent is definitely detectable. She scoots closer to Abel and traces his jaw with a single blue finger. "A visitor for the Heads, I presume?"

Apparently, she sees only one of us. And guess who that is.

One man, the tallest one, nods. "Yes. We've been told to fetch the boy _and_ the girl." The way he says that last part, it seems like he wants to let her know I'm here, too.

The woman doesn't seem to notice. She's too preoccupied with getting in Abel's face. "Mmm," she purrs, ignoring us completely. "And such a handsome one at that."

As bothered as I should be by her little comment on how attractive Abel is, I feel slightly amused. The look of discomfort and just utter dislike on Abel's face is absolutely worthwhile. If I'm to die today, then the fates are good to give me delightful last few hours of life.

"Catalina, we've received strict orders to get _both _children in the conference room for the meeting," the same man says with a firm tone to his voice. "We're running late. Tonight's not one for dallying, so save your repressed amorous feelings for someone else—maybe your own fiancé."

That seems to the wake the woman—Catalina, was that her name?—from her daydreams. She sighs and smiles sweetly at the man who spoke, tilting her head slightly.

"I'm sorry, Amphion," she says with a syrupy voice. She approaches him and slips her arm through his. "I guess that's just the way I am. And you know that, don't you? I may want to have a little fun every now and then, but you'll be my love eternally." With that pathetic speech, she places a kiss on his cheek.

I'm disgusted. Utterly disgusted.

On the other hand, Abel seems just about ready to saw his jaw off.

Amphion untangles himself from Catalina and gives her a cold stare. "We'll talk about this later," is all he says to her, and then he turns to us. "No weapons, metal objects, cellular phones, laptops, or any form of electronics allowed inside the conference room," he tells us. "If you are wearing any at this moment, I will have to ask you to remove them and place them on those metal plates over there. Your belongings will be returned to you later."

_If there's going to _be _a later for us, that is, _I think, but I do as the man says. I take my earrings off, my ring, my necklace, and, reluctantly, Levi's phone. Abel takes his belt off, his dogtag, his bangle (which is secretly a tracker), and his phone. We both place our items on a metal plate that Catalina carries away to who knows where.

Amphion and his counterpart walk ahead of us through the archway, but it's not until I feel a strong nudge from behind me that I realize I'm supposed to follow them. Abel and I stroll through quickly, trying to keep pace with the two men in black.

We walk through the hallway, which is in large contrast to the last one we walked through. This one has no paintings on its walls, no color, and no decorations— just plain metal. Even the floor is made of metal.

Our steps echo through the empty hall until we arrive at a dead end. I glance at Abel in confusion. Are they going to execute is right here, right now? Maybe. But they have no weapons. Although their large hands and arms seem capable enough of killing anyone…

Abel only shrugs. He's as clueless as I am.

I'm about to say something, until Amphion traces his hand across the wall. He looks as if he's drawing some kind of invisible painting or something. When he's done, he finishes the action off with a punch on the metal.

For a weird moment, nothing happens.

But then, just as he takes his hand away, the metal wall splits apart like elevator doors. No, not just _like _elevator doors—they _are _elevator doors.

Amphion and his partner enter the secret elevator, and Abel and I follow. The doors close with a familiar _ting _as the last of the men in black walk into the elevator car. Amphion—who now strikes me as the leader of the men in black—pushes a button that says _30 _on it.

I raise my eyebrows. _30? _This building is pretty tall, but not tall enough to hold 30 floors, I don't think so. But then, again, I'm surprised when, instead of going up, the elevator drops into the depths of the ground.

My stomach lurches and my milk tea threatens to make a reappearance, but I force it down my throat and clutch Abel's arm. He seems surprised, but thankfully, he doesn't mind. I lean against him for the whole length of the elevator ride, but when we've seemed to stop moving, I uncoil myself from him and stand away.

The elevator doors slide open, and Abel and I follow Amphion's lead. Again, we're guided through a series of metal halls that look similar to the last one. Except for one thing. There are large, polished, wooden doors at the end. My heart feels like it's about ready to give up on me. I'll admit, I don't want to die. Not yet. I'm too much of a coward for that.

Whether it's because he seems compelled to reassure me, or he simply wants to, Abel holds my hand. He intertwines his fingers through mine, radiating warmth. It's such a small gesture—something friends do for friends, perhaps—but it's enough to calm me a little. At least I'm heading to my death with a friend by my side. Partners, entering their demise hand-in-hand.

Amphion and his partner pause in front of the majestic wooden thresholds, each take one door handle, and then pull them open.

And I have to catch my breath.

It's not at all how I imagined an Execution Center would look like.

The floor is blanketed with a maroon carpet with golden patterns on it, and some matching velvet curtains are hung on the walls all over the place, though I doubt there are any windows down here. There's a beautiful chandelier hanging from the ceiling, which is also covered with some kind of velvet.

But the last thing that I'd expected to be in the Execution Center was right there, sitting in front of me on a long, oak table lined with people, both slightly familiar and completely unfamiliar.

It's Oakley and Rita.


	16. Alliance

For a while, I only stare at them in utter confusion. I don't know what to think—all I know is that Rita and Oakley are here in what I assumed was an Execution Center. _Out of place_ doesn't begin to cover it. And it's not just Rita and Oakley that don't seem to belong here, either. About twelve other people sit on either side of the long, wooden table, all varying in appearance. There's one girl that really stands out, with raven black hair cut in choppy layers. Her sunny yellow pupils, instead of being circular, are star-shaped. When I gawk at her eyes, she scowls and I turn away quickly.

I take in the rest of the people that are staring at Abel and me. There's a boy with fiery red hair that frames his cherub-like face and bright green eyes. He looks about fourteen. He is slightly identical to the girl who sits beside him, except she seems to be my age. Siblings, maybe. They're the only ones smiling at us. In the room, there are about three men dressed in the Peacekeepers' uniform. One has a special pin, rectangular with the symbol of the Capitol, and his name underneath it that indicates he's a Head Peacekeeper of some district. The man looks about in his mid-forties, with graying blond hair and steel blue eyes. I peer at his pin. _Peacekeeper Lively_. His name strikes me as familiar, and I try to remember why.

But then it hits me. I've seen his pin before. In my dream.

Suddenly, I feel as if the world has just been turned upside down. I thought I was in trouble, but now I highly doubt it. If this Head Peacekeeper is one that I can trust, then surely he isn't going to decide on my death. Or maybe that's what I want to believe.

I don't know what to say. I don't know if we _should _say anything.

Thankfully, Abel decides for me. "Oakley?" his voice is dripping with disgust. "What—what is this? I thought I could trust you with that information. What did you do, call in an Execution Meeting right after I left?"

Oakley opens his mouth to speak, but he's stunned. For a moment, he blinks, and an expression of confusion covers his features. "What?" he chokes out.

"They think they're in an Execution Center," Rita says to Oakley softly.

"Well, aren't we?" I demand. "Rita, what is this?"

The girl—the one with the raven black hair and stars for eyes—lets out a bitter laugh. "Idiots," she says. Her voice is strained and husky, sounding remotely close to that of a chain smoker. When she talks, I see her teeth are perfectly aligned and ivory white. "They don't know a thing," she says to the entire group. "Who decided they should come and join us, anyway? They're only going to waste our time." Every word she says is dripping with venom.

Peacekeeper Lively frowns at the girl. "Patience, Eris. You were no better two years ago."

"I was _much _better two years ago," she spits back. She gestures toward me with a look of contempt. "She's even denser than Levi was. That worthless, stupid douche."

I grit my teeth and swallow down the lump in my throat. I don't care what she has to say about me; she's not committing any foul to my dead brother. I careen toward her with my fists balled up, but suddenly, strong arms imprison me. I can tell even without looking over my shoulder that it's Abel.

"Let go!" I demand, thrashing around, but it's no use. "Let go of me, now!"

"Look, you guys called us over," Abel says, ignoring me. He doesn't sound like he's having any trouble holding me back at all. Curse his masculinity. "We didn't ask to be criticized. We don't even _know _you. You'd think—after being kidnapped and drugged and all—you'd have at least a little respect for us and tell us what is happening."

"Can't you figure it out, Numbskull?" Eris says.

At her response, I stir even more violently. What I really want to do is grab her hair and tear it off her skull, which is only about four feet away from me. But Abel's grip on me is as hard and firm as steel—so firm that my arms are practically glued to my side now. I can barely move.

"That'll be enough, Eris," Peacekeeper Lively reprimands her. "Now, Skye and Abel, why don't you take a seat? We'll discuss this in an orderly manner." He gestures to two empty seats in front of him—about four people away from Eris. I'm thankful. I don't know how much longer I can take looking at her bloodshot, freakish eyes.

Abel warily loosens his grip on me. It's all I can do not to take Eris down right here and now. As if sensing my lack of self control, Abel leads me toward Peacekeeper Lively hurriedly. We take our seats, smoldering. The chairs are padded with velvet, soft and warm, which reminds me of home. Of Levi, for some reason.

The table is silent, all eyes are on us. I try to focus on Peacekeeper Lively, but my eyes occasionally flicker toward Rita and Oakley, whose expressions are sad and slightly guilty. With clasped hands, Peacekeeper Lively sighs, finally breaking the quiet.

"How much do you know?" he asks us softly.

I glance at Abel questioningly. He gives me a tiny nod, and I begin, "About what, in particular? We know a lot about _a lot_." Impertinent, I know, but if I'm heading for my death, then I might as well come out with it.

This makes the Peacekeeper smile slightly. "You remind me so much of your brother. Defensive, a little cheeky, yet capable of so many things." There's a snort coming from who I guess is Eris, but no one gives it notice. "Do you know about your brother, Skye?"

"I-I don't know," I choke out, tears starting to well up in my eyes. It hurts me so much to think about my brother's probation. It almost makes me feel ignorant for not noticing. Guilty for not even bothering to ask about it. I bet he was hiding it to spare me the trouble.

He nods, considering this. "Well, your brother was many things, but here in the Alliance, he was mostly known as our best field agent. He ran numerous, dangerous errands for our secret company and most times, he narrowly escaped captivity. But then, when your brother was fourteen, our plans were miscarried and he ended up getting caught. Thankfully, the government didn't have enough evidence to support a major punishment, so they let him off with a warning."

"My mother told me about that," I say.

He raises his eyebrows at me. "She did? What did she say?"

"She said Levi was in trouble. Given perpetual probation for doing 'something bad'. But she said she was never told about what he did; all she knew was that he would be living life as if he were walking across a ridiculously thin string with a pool of sharks beneath it."

The analogy seems to interest Peacekeeper Lively. "Well, she's right about the last part," he admits. "He _was, _indeed, in a lot of trouble. His life wasn't getting any easier. But Skye, what Levi did wasn't something bad. What _they're _doing—now _that's _something bad. Do you understand?"

"I think I might," I say. "Are you referring to the Capitol, sir?"

The smile reappears on his face. "Yes. Yes, I am. You're a quick one, aren't you? Just like your brother. So you understand that the Capitol—us—_we're _doing something awful?" I nod. "And what might that be?" he asks me.

I give my head a slight shake. "The Hunger Games?" I take a hunch; it's a pretty easy quiz. I mean, we're killing twenty-three children every year. It's not something that goes by unnoticed.

Peacekeeper Lively looks impressed. "Good. You understand. So, have you gathered anything that might tell you what kind of company we're running down here?" he asks me.

I mull over it for a while, feeling as if Eris's comments about my being dense have some kind of truth in them. I can't think properly. Maybe it's because of the drugs the men in black had injected me with. My brain feels slightly foggy, so I look over at Abel for some answers.

That's when I notice it. Abel has this look of revelation upon his face, like someone's just told him where to find Heaven. His blue eyes hold a strange knowledge, and for a while, he remains silent. Then he says, "_Alliance Incorporated_. An alliance. You're an alliance set to overthrow the Capitol."

I glance around the room for confirmation. Every single face lights up with a small smile—even Eris'.

"Good job," Peacekeeper Lively remarks.

"So… we're not in trouble?" I ask, just to be sure.

He chuckles. "No, of course not. Quite the contrary, actually. If it isn't too much to ask, we'd like to have you in the Alliance. We lost two of our best field agents in your fieldtrip last month, as you already know, so—"

"Two?" I interrupt him. "You mean, not just Levi?"

"No." It's not Peacekeeper Lively who replies; it's Rita. "Tania Sinclair, my half sister," she says. "She was part of the Alliance as well."

"Tania?" Abel echoes. "But how? She was so…"

"Into it?" I finish for him. He nods gratefully.

"That was only an act," Oakley explains. "You see, we can't just go opposing everything Capitol-related; we'd get under suspicion and never get anything done. Disguises were crucial. Look around, Skye. Is there anyone sitting at this table that you think you might recognize?"

I scan everyone's faces, occasionally stopping at one and moving on to the other. I realize there _are _quite a few people whom I recognize from school, but have never guessed to be Pro-Rebellion. There's that girl, Ophelia, with the blond hair and silver tattoos all over her body. She was in a lot of my classes last year. The way she acted, I'd guessed she loved the Hunger Games.

"Yeah," I finally reply, seeing Oakley's point. They're not just rebels; they're amazing actors, too. Now that he's pointed it out, I can see why I've never noticed Levi's probation, or actually anything odd about his behavior. Levi had (or at least he acted like he did) as much enthusiasm for the Games as any other Capitol teenager—maybe even more.

"So, what made you decide to invite us into the Alliance?" Abel asks Peacekeeper Lively.

He smiles. "Your friends, Rita and Oakley, under my command, gave out two items to numerous people—two of them being the both of you. The necklace and the bangle, if you both remember. Rita and Oakley knew, of course, all of the accessories' properties. It was simply a test to see who had the wits to put two and two together. And the both of you passed it with flying colors."

For a moment, I'm slack-jawed, feeling like a complete idiot. I mean, there we were, thinking Rita and Oakley had passed _our _trust test by giving us the gifts, when in fact, _we'd _passed their test by _receiving _the gifts and unlocking the secrets to them. I have two words for you: Epic fail.

"That's… a lot to process," Abel mutters.

"Don't worry; it took most of us over a month to digest," a girl—the one with the red hair and the boy that looks similar to her—reassures us. "You're both making good progress."

I smile her way, just because she seems kind. Anyway, she and the fourteen-year-old kid next to her were the only ones who seemed welcoming earlier, so I owe both of them some form of benignity.

"There's one thing I'd like to know, though, if you don't mind," Rita cuts in.

Abel nods. "Yeah, sure. Go for it."

"When did you realize it?" she asks. "I mean, about the Capitol. When did you realize it was wrong?"

"Fieldtrip," Abel and I say simultaneously, but it's no laughing matter. In our world, the word is strange, almost ominous. It was the event that changed our lives. Not in a bad way, either, but changed it, nonetheless.

Rita nods. She understands. "Well, you know, there's always a turning point. I loved the Hunger Games—before Tania managed to convince me it was horrid." I raise my eyebrows at her. _Tania _convinced _her? _The knowledge is still a little new to me, so it may take a while to get used to the idea of the Alliance's existence and its members.

"How did Tania join the Alliance?" Abel asks what I'm thinking.

"That's a long story, actually," Peacekeeper Lively interrupts. "One, I'm afraid, we'll have to tell you another time. Tonight, we will focus on how _you two _will join the Alliance." He smiles. "Will you join us, Skye and Abel?"

My gaze slowly turns toward Abel, and his turns to me as well. With our eyes, we reach a silent agreement.

"Yeah," Abel finally responds. "We want in."

"So what division are they going to be in?" Eris asks with a little less venom in her voice. Of course, she doesn't sound completely thrilled about our joining the Alliance.

Peacekeeper Lively ponders on it for a while, but he eventually replies, "The field team is running low on allies. Perhaps they can join that."

"No," Eris immediately disagrees. "I'm not having them in my team."

The nice girl with the red hair snorts. "_Your _team? If Levi didn't—" she suddenly cuts herself off, thinking better of it, and continues, "I-It was _his _team. It still is. Besides, Levi was an amazing field agent—I bet his sister's just as good."

I throw her a grateful smile, and she acknowledges it with a grin. I should ask her name later. I'm beginning to really like her.

"Levi got caught," Eris says, pronouncing it word by word with emphasis.

"…after he saved your cocky butt," Rita puts it. "He saved all our butts. In a way, we owe him our lives. He took all the blame and we walked away unharmed."

I frown. "How'd Levi get caught anyway? And what did they catch him doing?"

They all glance at each other nervously. It's evident they're arguing inwardly about who's going to tell the unfortunate story. After a while of silent accusation, Ophelia, the blonde girl with silver tattoos, sighs.

"Our field team was on a special mission," she begins in her thick Capitol accent. "Our job was to retrieve the coordinates for the next Hunger Games from one of our resources in the government. Our associate was to leave the file on the desk of the Capitol Battle Lab. We tapped into security and got Levi in to retrieve the file. He was supposed to give us the cue, and then we'd secure his safe exit. We would've been successful, but Eris—" she shot an accusing glance at her "—argued with Levi's otherwise amazing plan. We ended up running a little late, took up too much time, and had too little to get the job done. In the end, Levi didn't signal us to cover him when security came; he didn't want us to get tangled into it, so he took all the blame."

She bites her quivering bottom lip, and then sighs shakily. "He was a good team leader."

Her tone lowers to a hoarse and guilty whisper toward the end, and she hangs her head in silence. Nobody—not even Eris—dares to disagree with her.

I grit my teeth, willing them not to clatter. All the warmth has drained from my body, and all the blood from my cheeks, leaving me shivering and empty. "What… what did Levi do next?" I say, my throat closing up on me.

Oakley clears his throat. "He convinced the men he was only an avid fan of the Games. Apparently, they didn't buy it," he says.

"How do you figure?" Abel asks.

"Well, if they did," Rita explains with a frown, "Levi wouldn't be dead."

A miserable silence sets into the room. This alliance thing, as it turns out, really isn't just a walk in the park; two people have died from it. Or at least, two people that I know of. Who knows how many other lives involvement with the alliance has claimed. Do I really want to do this? Do I really want to give my life to this?

I swallow down my fear. I know this is what Levi would want me to do—finish his job. See to it that I fix this horrid mistake of a lifestyle we Capitol people have set for Panem. _We're _killing the kids—not the tributes. _We are the murderers_.

Finally, Peacekeeper Lively breaks the silence. "So, it is set." He bends over slightly to glance at the woman who sits three people away from him to his right. Her sleek red-orange hair is drawn back with a plain black headband, revealing her perfect skin and bright gold eyes. "Ms. Mayfleet, where would you place these two young ones?" Peacekeeper Lively asks her.

"I move to place them in the field department," she answers.

"I second the motion," says Rita Lorkerstone.

There's a murmur of agreement as Ms. Mayfleet scribbles something onto her tiny notepad. From what she's been doing so far tonight, I gather she determines in which department new allies are placed. And Rita, apparently, speaks in behalf of the entire group.

Peacekeeper Lively's mouth twitches up in a tiny smile. "Well, then. It's settled. Is there anything anyone else might like to add before we conclude this meeting?" He glances at Eris, whose face seems to have adopted a deeper scowl. "Eris? Anything to say?"

"Yeah," she responds, setting her bloodshot, star eyes on Abel and me. "Brace yourselves. Your life isn't going to get any better… and that's assuming you get to keep it."


	17. District 13

**Author's Note.** Hey, everyone! As you may know, I was thinking about quitting Questionable, but all the replies just got me back up. I forced myself to write half of this chapter, and then for the other half, I started getting my inspiration and love for this story back. Anyway, this chapter is longer than any other chapter I've written, just to make up for all the weeks I left you guys.

Also, I've just started reading The Underland Chronicles which is also by our beloved Suzanne Collins. It's extremely amazing and I recommend it to anyone who likes The Hunger Games and Percy Jackson.

Here's chapter seventeen!

* * *

I wish I could say I feel different, now that I'm in the Alliance. I wish I could say I feel somewhat fulfilled to be part of this righteous cause. I wish I could say I am not afraid of what fate awaits me due to my involvement, because I'm willing to fight to the death for the freedom of the District people.

But of course, if I said that, I would be a filthy liar.

Because the truth is, I don't feel different. I don't feel fulfilled. And most of all, I'm scared out of my wits. Exactly one second after the meeting adjourns and everyone gets up to leave, I can hear my heart beating frantically. _What have I gotten myself into? _I think. _I'm no Levi. I can't live up to his name. And if I come short of him, and he died… what fate does that leave me?_

Before I can think too much about it, Abel places his hand on my shoulder. A look of concern crosses his features.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "You look sick."

I nod, perhaps a little too much. _Oh, I think I'm going to throw up. _"I'm fine," I assure him. "Very fine."

"Good then." That strained husky voice—Eris, no doubt. I turn around to face her, and she looks me up and down as if trying to decide which species of Animalia I fit into, which is ironic, because she's the one with stars for eyes. "Because we can't drive you to a hospital. The two of you aren't leaving this place. Tonight, you hit the hay in the trusty ole Alliance bunk."

I scowl, thinking she's just playing with me, but when I look at Peacekeeper Lively for some kind of reassurance, he smiles at me apologetically.

"Sorry," he says. "I forgot to mention that. If you take one of the elevators to the underground level number 17, you'll find a whole floor of bunks. Pick which one you'd like. Rita will take you." Just then, he waves Rita over, who completely drops what she's doing to obey his call.

Rita sashays toward us without question, her long pink tied-back hair swaying left and right as she moves. She grins. "Let's go get you guys settled in for the night. We've got dinner in a couple of—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Abel cuts her off. "Wait, hold on. You actually _mean _what you're saying? You're telling us that we can't leave for the night? We have to stay here?"

Peacekeeper Lively frowns subtly. "I apologize, but it's one of the Alliance rules. When we have our weekly meetings in the night, none of us are allowed to leave the Alliance, for safety purposes."

My eyebrows scrunch together and I look over at Abel. He's got that same confused and slightly surprised expression on his face.

"Look at the bright side!" says Rita. Eris mutters something about there being no bright side when you're buried thirty stories underneath the ground, but Rita doesn't pay her any attention. "At least, with you guys staying the night, we can go over the rest of the Alliance rules, and Oakley and I can show you around."

"This is the arms lab," Rita states as the elevator doors split open to reveal an all-white laboratory. There are people in white lab coats—scientists, I suspect—who are working on chemical experiments, and then some who are tampering with metal parts of what I would guess were weapons.

The room smells like a mixture of ozone and alcohol. Not very easy on the senses, if you ask me. For a while, I wonder how the scientists can possibly take working here for hours and hours, but then I notice the almost invisible masks covering their faces from forehead down.

"Weapons, bombs, armor," Oakley says with a big grin. He throws his arms out, gesturing to the whole floor. "You name it, we've got it."

The two of them take us around the huge laboratory, showing us a couple of the experiments their scientists and engineers have been working on.

Oakley takes a dark, tiny gun and examines it fondly. "This one can pack a punch. You do not want to mess with anyone armed with this little devil."

"Why do you have weapons when there isn't any war?" Abel asks, his eyes scouring the room filled with weapons.

"Yet," Rita says. "There isn't any war _yet_."

We continue around the floor, poking at anything we find interesting. There's a bullet that you can load into a gun which is not only virtually indestructible, but can also destroy anything in its path—six inches of cold hard metal, or a piece of wood two meters thick. It can pierce right through them like it would your delicate, fragile skin.

After about fifteen minutes, we all start feeling a little woozy due to the gases unleashed in the room, and Rita and Oakley decide it's time to take us down to the battle lab.

"Battle lab?" I remark as we get on the elevator. "What's the difference? I mean, you already have an arms lab. Isn't that the same thing?"

"Nope," Oakley says. "Arms lab—that's where we make our weapons, both defensive and offensive. But the _battle lab_—that's where we plan _when_, _how_, and _where_ to usethe weapons."

Rita pushes the elevator button that has _40 _written on it. The button turns orange and the elevator drops down. "Battle strategies," she explains. "That's what the battle lab is for."

"Battle strategies for what?" I ask.

"Um… battle…?" Oakley says.

The elevator stops with a soft _ting _and the doors open to a new floor. This lab is the exact opposite of the last one. Instead of the walls being all-white, they are dark, and instead of scientists, there are men and women in business attire. Coats and ties, pencil skirts and stilettos.

A beautiful woman with dark hair tied back in a tight bun comes over to greet us. She doesn't look Capitol at all, with her natural dark skin and brown eyes. When she speaks, I find she doesn't bear the Capitol accent, either.

"Welcome to Floor 40," she says. "We cover the field of battle strategies. I'm Prissca, supervisor of any and every activity concerning strategies here in the Alliance. You must be Abel Harter and Skye Reese." She gives a tiny, almost undetectable smile. "Welcome to the field team."

"Thanks," Abel says, and we both smile at her.

Oakley gestures toward Prissca. "So, hey," he says to us. "Prissca will take care of you guys for a couple of minutes. Show you around, the usual. This is our floor, by the way. The field team is a large part of the battle lab, so you two are going to be seeing a lot of this place for as long as you're part of the Alliance."

"She'll discuss with you the rules and regulations of the Alliance," adds Rita. "Meanwhile, Oakley and I will go see how Eris is handling kitchen duty. She hates cooking, and quite frankly, she's terrible at it. I'm sorry you two will have to ingest what garbage she gives us on your first night at the Alliance." Then she beams brightly at Prissca. "Bring them to dinner later?"

Prissca nods. "That will be fine."

When Rita and Oakley leave, Prissca takes us around the battle lab.

"Skye Reese," she remarks as we walk. "Related to Levi Reese?"

My throat suddenly feels dry and tight. "Uh, yeah. You knew him?"

She nods, though somewhat dejectedly. "He was an excellent agent. I'm sorry we had to see him… go." Then she smiles softly. "Quite a smart boy, he was. I'm not allowed to have favorite agents… but in any case, he impressed me. I'm sure he would have been proud of you for joining us, Skye."

My mouth quivers for a moment before hesitantly forming a smile. "Thank you."

For the next thirty minutes, Prissca shows Abel and me around. We get to meet a number of agents, some pleasant company and others, less so. There are female agents, male agents, old agents, young agents, mean agents, nice agents, busy agents, and lazy agents. But there is one thing everyone here has in common—they want to rid Panem of the horrific Hunger Games.

Finally, Prissca takes us for a quick stop into a room filled with technology. Little screens line across one wall, and the other two walls are composed of one screen each, which covers them completely. A table of buttons, wires, and devices runs before the wall with the little screens, and three people sit at it, engaged in conversation with each other.

"…wouldn't let me. It isn't fair."

"That's because the last time you tampered with the communications, Darius, you put the entire Alliance offline. So yeah, I'd have to say it _was _pretty fair of Prissca."

"Hey, it wasn't my fault."

"Um, yes. It kind of was."

"Okay, so maybe I _did_ cut our com off last time, but I only did it to see how low our technical defenses were, you know? So it was pretty unfair of Prissca to put me off like this."

Prissca clears her throat.

The three people at the table glance back at us simultaneously in mild surprise. It's the young boy with red hair and his older female counterpart. The third person is Ophelia, who smiles at us as if sorry we had to hear her friends' banter.

"Prissca!" the young boy yelps nervously, swiveling his seat to face us. His cherub-like face turns almost as red as his hair.

"Hello, Darius," she says calmly. "Satisfied with your position, I hope?"

He nods excessively. "Yeah, yeah. Absolutely. I mean, just sitting here and doing nothing? It's magical. My life is changed forever."

"That's good," she remarks. "Because you're going to be doing nothing for as long as you learn to keep your hands to yourself."

Darius frowns, slumping into his seat and swinging it back to face the table.

"Hey," says the red-headed girl. Even with just one word, her thick accent is evident, unlike the boy, whose accent bears no trace of Capitol whatsoever. She grins at us. "Skye and Abel, right? I'm Aurelia. That's my little brother, Darius, as you already know," she says, nodding toward him. "Welcome to Floor 40."

"Thanks," Abel mutters.

A sort of awkward silence settles into the room. Aurelia studies Abel's face as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, and maybe because he's so good-looking, it is. I try to hide the flash of annoyance that passes over me.

"So, what do you around here?" I ask, but this time I look over at Ophelia.

She raises her eyebrows, her silver tattoos wrinkling subtly. "Oh, we're in charge of the Alliance's communications. It's not a very complicated job. All we do is supervise the stuff that goes in and out of the Alliance and make sure we don't give away any important information."

"That's interesting," says Abel.

Then Ophelia purses her lips together almost guiltily. "We were the ones who got Levi—"

"No, don't," I cut her off, stifling a wince. "That's all right, I know enough."

A sad look crosses her face. "I'm really sorry, Skye," she says, tracing her fingers along her seat's arm. "You may not have known because whatever friendships we have in the Alliance are kept secret, but he was one of my best friends."

I force out a tiny smile, which I actually think seems plausible. "Thanks, Ophelia. I'm sure he felt the same about you."

Saying that actually reminds me of the letter I found in the tiny box in Levi's room. The letter to me… and then the other to Rita. And then I wonder: Was the letter Levi wrote to Rita real? I remember the first line he wrote. "_I know that I've never spoken to you that much before…" _If they were part of this organization and were colleagues all along, then they must have spoken a lot.

That's just about as mysterious as everything else here.

But I don't have time to bring this up, because suddenly, Prissca says we might be late for dinner, and then she hustles us out of the room and into the elevator. She mentions something about always being late, though she doesn't strike me as the tardy type.

"Why the hurry?" complains Aurelia. "You really want to be _that _close to whatever monster Eris has cooked up for dinner tonight?"

I guess somebody laughs at that statement—maybe Abel. But I'm not quite listening, because all I can think about is Levi's letter. I'm almost one hundred percent sure it was a fraud of some sort. I think my thoughts show through my expression, because Abel elbows me and I snap out of my reverie.

"Yeah?" I say, trying to act as natural as possible, and I actually succeed at it, but when I catch a glimpse of Ophelia's blonde hair from behind him, I am reminded again of the letter. I look down quickly, scowling and sorting my thoughts.

"What's wrong?" Abel says warily.

I shrug and shake my head slightly. It's a good thing the elevator stops with a soft _ding _and the doors split open, because I don't think I can explain myself to Abel right now. I can't tell him about the letter—no, that is something I will share only with myself, and maybe even Rita.

Prissca leads the way and I trail at her heels, eager to get away. But even as I step out of the elevator, I can feel Abel's eyes trained on me. No doubt, he knows there's something wrong and will stop at nothing to find out. I don't worry myself about that, though, because suddenly, a strong scent of something delicious floods my senses.

In front of me spans a large dining hall with crimson-painted halls and a long oak table similar to that of the meeting room. On the table, there are numerous dishes served on silver platters, tureens, and ceramic bowls. Along its seats are various Alliance agents, but most of them are the ones from earlier. There's only about three of them I don't recognize.

Out of the kitchen doors on the opposite side of the room, Rita bursts out with a weary look of relief on her face.

She cheers up as she catches sight of us. "Skye!" she calls out and dances over to me. "How did you like your mini tour of the Alliance?"

I purse my lips. "Well enough," I say. "What's for dinner?"

"Heaven." It's not Rita who answers, but Oakley. He appears right behind Rita with a sly smile. "Good thing Peacekeeper Lively was around to help Eris out with kitchen duty," he says. "Because apparently, Rita isn't any better at cuisine than Lady Star-Eyes."

Rita tries to look indignant, but it doesn't stay when Oakley bursts out in laughter. She gives in shortly, her shoulders slumping in surrender.

"Fine, I don't cook," admits Rita. "But really, who does, these days? Oh, right. _Machines_."

Oakley tries to protest by saying that no, people still do cook these days, but Peacekeeper Lively's voice over the agents' chatter cuts him off.

"Round up, everyone!" calls Peacekeeper Lively.

Some young agents who took shelter in the shady corners of the room start pouring toward the middle of the hall. They take their seats, still talking slightly but with hushed tones. Rita and Oakley lead us to a seat next to Peacekeeper Lively, over at the far end of the table.

Peacekeeper Lively gives us a brief introduction to the other agents, and as soon as he is finished speaking and he says we should dig in, I inhale a big spoonful. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until then, and for the first time in a while, my eyes flicker over to my wristwatch.

9:32PM.

So then Abel and I have been down here for over four hours. The fact reminds me of home, and how worried my parents will be later in the night when they find no trace of me. My mother, as she let me go earlier, probably thought I'd be back in an hour, maybe even two. But I know I can't leave the Alliance. Not now, not tonight. And maybe tomorrow, I'd be able to leave the place physically, but in truth, I will remain bonded to this institution for the rest of my life.

Something tugs at me as I run across that thought. Some feeling of fear grips me, and then I suddenly think about death. I've cheated it many times, and I wasn't even aware I had done so. There's that one time at the arena—being next to Tania Sinclair during the explosion. She died that day, but I didn't.

And then I also remember my odd dream—or was it a vision? I still don't know what to call it. But it was that one with the girl who resembled me. Faun—that was her name. She said something about dying so I wouldn't have to, and that's another time I've cheated death, I guess.

Since realizing the Games are wrong, I've been faced with so many obstacles, so many life-threatening circumstances. Even now, as innocent as it seems, eating dinner with about thirty revolutionaries is life-threatening in itself. It seems as if the world is against me—against me for doing something right.

"Skye?"

I glance up and find Rita gazing at me intently.

"Yeah?" I say, and I realize that I haven't touched my food since I checked my watch.

She purses her lips and studies me worriedly. "Is there anything wrong, sweetheart?"

I sigh shortly and attempt to chuckle, but it just comes out like little choking sounds. I clear my throat. "No," I say. "It's just that I ate at home already, and I'm kind of full."

Not a complete lie. I really am full, but not from eating. Since Levi… left, I haven't been in much of a mood for meals. Recently, my stomach has grown accustomed to little bites of food and gulps of water.

"Can I have your share, then?" asks Oakley, his voice muffled by just about his entire plate in his mouth.

Rita gives him a look that implies she is not at all pleased with his manners or the lack thereof, but Peacekeeper Lively and Abel only chuckle.

"What?" Oakley says defensively, shrugging at Rita. "She's not hungry, and the food is good."

At this point, Peacekeeper Lively laughs. "I'm glad you find it so, Oakley. I didn't study culinary arts for nothing, or so I hope."

The idea of this Head Peacekeeper of some district unknown to me who has studied _cooking_, of all things, pulls me up short. When Oakley said something a few minutes ago about how lucky we were that Peacekeeper Lively helped Eris out with kitchen duty, I only assumed he'd done one of the little things like sprinkling cheese over custard, not cooking the entire meal!

"You cook?" says Abel, surprised as I am.

"Oh, yes," he says. "It comes in handy in the district I am the head of."

We glance at Rita for some sort of explanation.

She gulps down her food and says, "Peacekeeper Lively is in charge of District 11."

_Oh, agriculture_, I think. Yes, cooking skills would be very handy there, where they grow wheat, grain, vegetables, fruits, and herbs. I can see why he seems to like his position there, and then I start to wonder why he isn't in District 11 right now. Surely, he is required to stay there.

Peacekeeper Lively, probably understanding my curious expression, explains, "Currently, I am not needed there so much as I am needed here. At least once every three months, the Head Peacekeepers of the districts come home to the Capitol for a meeting with the government, and once in a while, with the President himself. But that is only when things are going extremely sour."

I nod, though I don't exactly understand what _extremely sour _means. I realize it's the first time Peacekeeper Lively has ever mentioned President Snow, and the thought sends a chill down my spine. I don't know, but it just does.

I'm about to blurt out something else just to change the subject, but then all conversation dies immediately when the large wooden doors to the dining room swing open so far that they each bang against the wall.

Amphion and the men in black return, striding into the hall with no attempt to conceal themselves. They escort in a young man with black hair in a dark suit and a navy-blue-and-gray pin-striped tie. He can't be older than eighteen, but I can see through the scowl that seems permanently embedded on his face that he has seen too much to be called young.

All utensils clatter against porcelain plates. Even Oakley has stopped stuffing himself to look up at the visitors. Everyone glances from them to Peacekeeper Lively, who has stood up to acknowledge the young man with a nod. Whispers are exchanged among the other agents, and I catch one phrase: _District 13_.


	18. Spy

**Author's Note: **This chapter is a bit short (only 1,747 words, unlike the usual 3,000) but all the thoughts I wanted to portray in this chapter seem to be clear already. So I'd guess my work is done here. The next chapter might be longer.**  
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Tension hangs heavy in the air, and the whole room has gone quiet. The whispers and low chatter has died down, but still I cannot understand what ties District 13 together with this young man in the suit. My curiosity has been sparked, although I know that it should not, because his appearance here tonight must mean something dreadful, for anxiety is slapped across each agent's face.

"Good evening, Hector," says Peacekeeper Lively finally. "What brings you here?"

"Death," says the young man, Hector. "So much death, Lucius."

It takes me a moment to realize this Lucius the boy speaks of is Peacekeeper Lively. I'm surprised I haven't asked anyone of his whole name before. What had I assumed, that his first name was _Peacekeeper_? Fail of the millennia.

Peacekeeper Lively's expression is unreadable. But I can see through his steel blue eyes that his thoughts are not as idle as his façade. There, I can see worry, pain, and a little bit of hopelessness. And then, all of the sudden, I am so much more curious to find out what this Hector's visit is all about.

"A private meeting would be most appropriate," says Peacekeeper Lively finally, but he sounds preoccupied. What I would give to read his thoughts, his deep, deep thoughts. "Come, Council. We've much to discuss."

Rita, Ophelia, Eris, Aurelia, Oakley, Ms. Mayfleet, the three other Peacekeepers, and everyone else who was present at the meeting room earlier rise from the table. No words exchanged, they walk together down the hall, but then, just as they are leaving the room, Peacekeeper Lively looks over his shoulder at Abel and me.

"Aren't you coming, you two?" he says with a trace of a smile, albeit sad.

Abel pulls up a chair for the both of us—the very same ones we sat on earlier. The young man, Hector, takes Darius's seat, which is right across ours. This is the first time I realize the red-headed little cherub isn't here, and I think it may be because what will be discussed among us tonight is something his innocent ears will not like to hear.

Once all are seated, Peacekeeper Lively turns to Hector. "Well, we're having quite the spontaneous meeting, aren't we?" he remarks lightly.

Hector doesn't avoid his gaze. "It was necessary." As he says this, his eyes flicker over to us quizzically, as if trying to figure out who we are and what in the world we're doing here. But he doesn't seem to discriminate us for our lack of Capitol air, for he bears no trace of physical alteration himself, nor does he possess the accent.

Peacekeeper Lively chuckles. "It _is _always necessary with you, Hector." This causes the young man to scowl deeper, but he says nothing as Peacekeeper Lively continues, "How is the group at District 13 faring?"

Hector's scowl disappears for just one second, replaced briefly by a look of remorse. "Not well," says Hector. "Three are badly wounded, to the near point of death. Two are dead. I returned to the Capitol to deliver you this news, and to ask for supplies. Aside from our little group of agents, there are also District 13 natives who've been subject to immense attack."

Abel and I glance at each other, perplexed. Did we hear right? _District 13 natives_. I thought they were long dead!

Peacekeeper Lively sighs. "This is dreadful." Then, as if resurfacing from his thoughts, he looks over to us sadly.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I've forgotten to give you proper introductions." Then he gestures from us to Hector with his hand. "Skye and Abel, this is Hector, another one of our field agents. He used to be part of this team, until we promoted him to a much higher position. Hector, meet Abel Harter and Skye Reese, our newest field agents and an addition to the Alliance Council."

Hector looks over at us. He appears as if he is trying to decode something in his head as his intense green eyes examine us intently. And then, all at once, a wave of recognition washes over his features and rinses all of his professionalism.

His lips part and he says in a hoarse whisper, "Skye Reese? Levi's sister?"

I can't tell you enough how sick I am of hearing that phrase.

My throat tightens, but lucky for me, my voice is steady when I say, "Yes. Younger sister."

He nods, as if this makes sense, but he still looks fazed. "You look a lot like him," he says.

"That's what they say," I remark, trying my hand in humor, but after all that has transpired, good spirits has avoided me entirely. It comes out in an empty monotone.

Hector looks like he wants to say more, but cannot find the reason to. I'm glad. Today has been exhausting emotionally for me. Nearly everything reminds me of my brother. Even sitting here now across Hector reminds me of him. I don't need another teary confession about what who did to my brother, and what my brother did for who. I'm afraid one more push could drive me down.

After a few seconds of silence, Oakley clears his throat. "So, uh, what exactly are we supposed to be meeting about that is so vital as to replace the most important meal of the day?"

Rita sighs, distressed. "Oakley, that's breakfast, not dinner."

"The most delicious meal of the day, then," he corrects, but he doesn't seem to get Rita's message. "Whatever. So what happened, Hector?"

Hector cracks a smile, which tells me that he may not be as stone-like as I thought he was. But almost immediately, the trace of humor is swept away by worry. "The Capitol—they know of District 13 now," he sighs. "We shouldn't have tried to bridge connections between District 13 and us. It's caused them much suffering, and now we've drawn attention to ourselves."

There it is again! Talk of District 13. My confusion and curiosity must show through my expression, because Peacekeeper Lively briefly explains it for our benefit.

He says that they found out two months ago that what was left of the citizens of District 13 were alive and had managed to rebuild their city some few miles away from the original site. Their supplies came from forests which were a day's trip from the destroyed city on foot. The citizens struggled, but they were strong, and they built strong fortifications around their little huts of wood.

But, seeing as they were always on the brink of hunger and death, the Alliance attempted to send help to them. Missions were prepared. Missions to relieve hunger, wounds, and some to bring clothes and other necessities. At the beginning, the Alliance was quite successful. They were able to send clusters of agents over there to aid the endangered District 13 citizens without getting caught by the Capitol government.

"But now," Hector cut in. "We started to plot out a plan with District 13 to overthrow the Capitol. And does anybody remember what District 13's principal industry was before the Capitol 'obliterated' it?"

"Nuclear development," says Abel. I glance at him, surprised that he even remembers. We were taught this in history class once, but I guess I was too occupied with my life to even bother. Abel, however, seems to have been aware of the Capitol's wrongdoing since childhood.

Hector nods approvingly. "Yes, nuclear development. So, suppose we had all that explosive power on our side—"

"We'd win the war before it even started," I say, the reality of it dawning upon me. A strange, tingling excitement bubbles forth from inside of me, and I sit at the edge of my seat now, eager to hear more.

"Exactly," says Hector, but then he sighs and sits back slightly on his chair. "It was a good plan, but we got caught. The Capitol now knows of the hidden District 13, and I imagine before the end of the month, if nothing is done to prevent it, they will have burned the new city to ashes, and then those ashes they will incinerate to nothingness."

Eris laughs—a really sick laugh. Everybody glances at her, and she tries to contain it, but it's no use. "What?" she snickers. "Oh come on, Hector. You've got to admit—that sounded so serious, coming from you, that it's funny. Humor me."

"Two of my men died out there last week," Hector says through gritted teeth. The anger in his tone is undeniable, but I think I may catch just a tinge of sorrow, too. "If you wanted someone to humor you, you should've stayed at home and turned the TV on."

Somewhere to my right, Eris snorts. "Chill, Hector, okay? We're on the same side, remember? Or have the Elites brainwashed you into thinking you're much higher than all of us just because you get to hop on a hovercraft and secretly head into District 13? Whoooo," she says mockingly. "How awesome."

"Eris!" Peacekeeper Lively scolds, and it's a good thing he's cut in, too. Hector is fuming—absolutely fuming. I'm afraid if their conversation goes on any longer, someone will get hurt. "That is not why we are here. This is a meeting, not a debate. Whatever bitterness you hold against each other you can sort out outside of this room, but beginning this second, we will not waste another moment on petty, futile banter when we could be working out a plan to save lives."

That seems to tame Eris. She sits back with her arms crossed, scowling. But beyond that, however, it blows an icy layer over the room so much so that no one feels like speaking.

"Everything I said—it isn't even the worst part yet," mutters Hector darkly, breaking the silence. All eyes flicker over to him questioningly. Everybody has the same unspoken query.

_What is?_

He takes a deep breath, but he doesn't exhale it. Nobody wants to know what he's about to say next, but if the Alliance is going to get any better, we must hear it. Finally, he sighs and drops his voice a thousand octaves low that it is nearly inaudible.

"We have a spy among us."


	19. Courage Kills

**Author's Note. **Hey everyone. Sorry that I took so long to update. This chapter was just tremendously difficult to write, with so much raw emotion and such. I hope I don't disappoint you too much at the end of this chapter. The intensity was killing me. Oh and who else watches the World Cup? Go Italy!

So here's chapter nineteen. Not much else to say, except that you should brace yourselves.

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A single chill runs down my spine, turning every bone in my body to ice. _A spy. _A spy is here right now, listening to the very same words my numb brain is registering. A spy who will report soon to the people he works for and will possibly tell of my participance in the Alliance.

I can't help it. I feel sick in the stomach. If I was scared earlier, I am nearly insane with fear now.

"So who is it?" asks Eris, unfazed. "Who's the spy, Hector? Huh?"

"If I'd known, there _would be_ no spy," says Hector coldly. "At least not anymore."

"What are you saying, that you'd kill the spy if you found out who he is?" Rita puts in, somewhat set back. Then she shakes her head contritely. "Hector, we don't do that, remember."

"Do what?" he spits back.

"Kill," Oakley replies this time.

Rita nods anxiously but solemnly. "No, we don't. We leave that to the Capitol, and if it can be done, we try to keep people alive—even spies."

"What are you talking about, Rita?" Aurelia blurts out in protest. "This spy, he must be the one! Whoever he is. He must be! And he is among us at this moment."

I don't have the foggiest idea what Aurelia is sputtering out, but it has a very dark effect on everyone else. Eris still has a scowl on her face, but it is tinged with sadness. Rita has started tearing up. Hector's jaw is locked and he grits his teeth together in frustration. All the Peacekeepers are deathly silent, as if trying to keep their mature mask on.

"Who is it?" shrieks Aurelia suddenly. I'm surprised. She didn't strike me as a kind of person with fury hidden beneath her friendly face. "Who are you? Come clean! Or die like Levi died!"

It spills out of her mouth so quickly that she seems just as taken aback by her own words as I am. She looks at me, mouth gaping in a mix of apology and horror. Suddenly, in that gut-wrenching moment, it all clicks together. I understand. This spy Hector speaks of is responsible for reporting Levi's whereabouts to whoever he works for. He is responsible for Levi's death.

And here he sits, somewhere in this cold room.

I don't understand what happens next, because I let my emotions rule over my body and it happens so fast. My first mistake, I suppose. In less than a few seconds, I find myself flying out of the meeting room and into the elevator car. I don't know what floor I pressed, but I feel I am going down—plummeting down so quickly that I have no time to think about anything but the dizzy sensation in my head.

I suppose after a while, the elevator stops and I step out of the car. The floor I am on shows no sign of other people. Good. The solitude comforts me, but after a moment, Aurelia's voice rings fresh in my ears again_—"Or die like Levi died!"—_and then I hear an a low, gruff scream that resembles that of a wounded animal. And I think it might be mine.

I don't know why, but I start running down the identical halls, perhaps going in circles, but I don't quite care. All I want is to forget. But as I try to, all I do is remember. I remember home. I remember my breakdown as I tore a hole through the family portrait. Was that just tonight? It seems so long ago.

Eventually, I stop at a dead end. There's nowhere else to go but back now, and I don't feel like going back yet, so I guess the only option is to stay. Enraged for some reason, I drive my fist against the wall over and over again, screaming and crying like the madman I am. I pound at the wall for what seems like eternity, as if Levi stands behind it, waiting for me to knock the bulwark down. What little self-control I managed to retain has been spent completely on holding myself back from slamming my head against the blank wall before me.

Dying now won't do any good. Or will it?

A tinge of red across the white wall is what causes me to stop. In that second of hesitation, I catch myself and gasp. Blood. All over my knuckles. But on the wall, it marks only one portion and it drips down from there slowly.

Anger is replaced by fear which interchanges with sadness, and I sink down to my knees, sobbing bitterly. How long I sit there, crying like a mess, I don't know. But when I look at my hands, they are sheet white, all but drained of blood. Once contained within my viens, they now scatter all over my ruined jeans.

I curl up cozily by the crook in the wall, all cried out now, but an emptiness eats at me and I shake subtly. For the longest while, I don't do anything but lie there, thinking of Levi, wanting to hurt again because even pain is better than this numbness. Pain tells me I'm still alive, and after all that has happened, I need that reassurance.

_Levi, where are you? _I think. _Why have you left me? Where are you? Show yourself!_

I hear footsteps suddenly, and ahead of me, I see polished black shoes. They stop a few feet away from me. Levi's shoes! He wore them to his graduation, he did. At this realization, I spring up to a sitting position.

"Levi!" I cry happily, but when I look up, my heart breaks.

It's not Levi. It's Hector, and he looks down at me sympathetically and a bit hopelessly. Perhaps he doesn't know what to do with a mess like me. I know I don't.

When I break out crying again, wiping my tears with my wounded hands, he squats down to my level and just gazes at me sadly for what seems like forever. He sighs, and then reluctantly reaches out to me. I flinch a little at his touch, but then I see that in his hand, he holds a white handkerchief and all he wants to do is wipe me clean. He won't hurt me, I keep telling myself.

The next few minutes are awkward, with Hector cleaning my face and wounds while I just sit there, staring at him. He reminds me of Levi and my dad. He cares in a special way like they do. I feel myself warming up to him, but my stiff position doesn't change.

After all the blood from my hands and cheeks has been rubbed off, Hector finally says, "Skye, right?"

I can't say anything. I know I should do something—nod, or even utter the smallest of groans—but I can't do anything. I just stare at him until I know the specks of gold and brown in his green eyes like the back of my hand.

"I take that as a yes," he says and chuckles a little, albeit bitterly. I realize, with no one around, that he's not nearly as formal as he is with Peacekeeper Lively.

He sighs and sits back. "Your boyfriend, Abel—"

This is what pulls me out of shock. "Oh, he isn't my boyfriend," I blurt out.

Hector raises an eyebrow, as if this is news. "She talks," he remarks, and then chuckles. "But anyway, your _friend_, Abel, wanted to come talk to you. But I managed to hold him off."

I clear my throat. "Why?" I ask, my voice cracking and raspy from tonight's fiasco.

"I wanted to tell you something," he says, which surprises me because I've known him for how long? Thirty minutes? As if sensing this, Hector smiles, and I warm up again. Just like with Levi.

"Levi never mentioned you, you know," he says. "But that's only because he wanted to protect you from all this. I guess he knew one day you'd have to be in on the Alliance secret, but I think until you were ready, he just wanted you to be safe."

I nod, but it makes little to no sense in my mind.

"Levi was my partner," Hector continues. "He and I were side-by-side on missions a lot. But then recently, when we discovered District 13, I was moved up to the make-do rescue team. Not that I was any better an agent than Levi, but the Council and the field team needed him more than they needed me, so they sent me away."

"He never mentioned you, either," I whisper.

"Like I said, he was protecting you," he explains. "And beyond that, he was protecting the Alliance, too. I'm sure you know we can't speak to one another outside of the Alliance building unless we were friends to begin with."

I sigh. "Yeah, I caught that."

He looks at me deplorably, his slightly glassy eyes searching my face for something unknown to me. Then he remarks, "I had a sister once."

"Had," I echo.

He nods slowly. "She died," he says. "And so did my parents. They died on the same day."

"How did they die?" I say. "If you don't mind my asking."

His mouth twitches up in the saddest of smiles. "I don't know."

This, of course, catches me by surprise. I raise my eyebrows at him, not knowing what to say next. What _do_ you say to a person who's just admitted he doesn't know how his entire family died? It doesn't seem very plausible a story to me.

Hector sighs and looks away regretfully. "When I first joined the Alliance," he mutters. "I wasn't careful enough." The words come out nonsensical to me, and at first, I think he just wanted to change the subject. But then I realize he wasn't changing the subject at all.

He blames himself for his family's death.

For the first time, I look down, scowling and sorting my thoughts. "So, if you don't know how they died," I begin. "Then how do you know for sure that they're dead?"

"This is the Capitol we're talking about here, Skye," he says. "In case you haven't picked it up from the Games, they don't do punishment unless it's fatal."

I hang my head. Ever so true. I know it first-hand. I've seen lives taken away. Tania… my brother, Levi. Hector's men in District 13. Who knows how many more.

"What's your point, Hector?" I ask, even though it doesn't completely tie up with our conversation right now. All I want to do is change the subject and get my mind off of death.

"Huh, well, I'm actually glad you asked," he says, sighing now and moving over to sit next to me against the wall. "I've forgotten why I came here in the first place. Well, anyway, I wanted to talk."

"Really? Because I never would've guessed," I say sarcastically.

A silent moment. Then he bursts out chuckling. "You're such a hard-to-get-through little girl, do you know that?"

"Maybe," I admit. "But _you're_ such a hard-to-get-through old man, so I guess it's only fair."

That, of course, makes him laugh for real. His laughter is contagious, and I start chuckling, too. It really is funny. Or maybe I'm just that much closer to insanity. But in any case, the little humor we managed to let out has broken the tension.

After the restrained rounds of laughter are done with, Hector says, "You know, you're so much like my little sister. She was a defensive girl, and she couldn't go down without a fight. She was as courageous as any sixteen-year-old girl could get." He stops for a moment, grinning to himself with slightly teary eyes. It's strange. This man—because even though he is about my age, he seems eons old to me and can't be called a boy anymore—is strict and professional among colleagues, but when he speaks of his family, he lays everything out brokenly.

I don't speak, letting him bask in good memories for a little while. I wish I could think reminisce like that—without bitterness, without restraint. But I can't. Any memory associated with Levi is sickly bittersweet.

"I'm proud of her, you know?" he finally continues. "Without a doubt, she died fighting. Whoever killed her or whatever situation she was put in—I know she tried her way out of it. I know she wasn't hopeless and I know that she was scared, but she tried."

I sigh, feeling a little pessimistic when I say, "But what difference does that make, Hector? She still died. What is a courageous death to life—real life?"

This takes him aback. "Are you honestly asking me that question?" his voice takes on that authoritative, reprimanding tone again. "Because if you think that a courageous death comes short of life, then I think you should better reconsider your entering the Alliance."

Ouch. That was cold. I suppose I deserve it, too, but I can't help wincing a little at his words.

He catches himself, however, and his features melt back from indignation to sorrow. He scowls and looks down, and for the longest moment, he is silent. But finally a sigh escapes his lips and he says, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that."

I shrug, as if this didn't matter to me. But it does. "Sure, Hector, whatever," I mutter.

"I can't blame you," remarks Hector sadly. "About being scared, I mean. I was scared when I first started the Alliance, too. Can't imagine what it's like for you. You already had to sacrifice a portion of your life before you even joined us."

I know what portion of my life he's talking about—Levi. And he's very right. Surprisingly, Hector is the ideal psychoanalyst.

He sighs again. "Just know, Skye, that I believe in you," he tells me. "You're most like my sister, Helen. And just like I don't doubt her and I don't doubt Levi's bloodline, I don't doubt you."

His reassuring words touch me, but I try not to appear so broken as he continues. "You'll find it in you, that special courage," he says. "When you feel like your life is being put into danger while you do your work in the Alliance, know that it isn't in vain. Your life could mean the lives of many others."

That last sentence tugs at me. I know there's some important piece of information I'm supposed to remember that is connected to that, but right now, I don't feel like thinking. So I let it go, but it still bothers me slightly.

I shake my head a little. "Okay, Hector," I say, clearly ending the conversation even though I know he isn't done. "Thanks. I get it."

After a moment of hesitation, he nods. "All right, that's good. Maybe… maybe we should get back now. Your friend will be wondering about you, and no doubt, we've missed a lot of the meeting." I make a face at that statement. "You can just go to bed and not attend the rest of the meeting, that's fine, too," Hector quickly suggests, but his tone changes sadly toward the end, as if I've just disappointed him.

I've to admit, that's a little unsettling, but right now is not the time to care about what other people think of me. I am so drained that all I want to do is sleep, and maybe never wake up.

Hector helps me up and we walk silently back to the elevator and shoot up to the meeting room. There, we see that only a few Allies still remain. There's just Rita, Oakley, Aurelia, Peacekeeper Lively, and Eris, who are all engrossed with conversation at the far side of the room. Abel sits away at the table, sorting his thoughts.

The moment we step out of the elevator, all talking ceases and all eyes glance our way. Eris is only vaguely interested, however, and she turns back to the loose circle of Allies. She nudges Oakley and he reluctantly continues the conversation with her.

Aurelia doesn't look up at me anymore, but I see her eyes are tinged with sadness. Apparently, Rita still hasn't stopped crying; her eyes are still bloodshot and her cheeks wet.

I first meet the eyes of Peacekeeper Lively, which are forgiving and understanding. He smiles at me sadly, but he doesn't regard me much more than that. All he says is, "Ah, you're here. Hector, come. We're considering a new side of the D-13 equation." Which, of course, means that I am not part of their new plans.

Hector meets with them, occasionally glancing back at me as I take a seat next to Abel, but I pretend not to notice. However, when their discussion begins, Hector doesn't look back at me anymore. He is the professional Hector once more.

I expect Abel to start a conversation, but he doesn't regard me at all. So I begin.

"How was the meeting?" I ask him.

He only glances at me briefly, and then he sighs. "Fine," he says concisely. "It was fine."

Well, way to break the ice. I feel offended a little that Abel, my friend, doesn't even care to ask me how I am, or why my hands have started bleeding again, or why I am a total and complete mess. It annoys me enough that I decide I am never talking to him again. At least for tonight.

In the silence, I pick up little snippets of conversation from the Allies. It's nothing that makes sense, though. Just things like "new agents" and "send away" and "District 13."

But then I hear Hector's voice say a little too loudly, "Well, who's going to be in my team? Aurelia and Rita can come, but not Oakley and definitely not Eris. You two have too much to do back here, and taking you will leave no one for the Head Quarters. I need two more people to leave with me tomorrow morning."

I gather they're thinking about sending a new batch of agents to District 13 with Hector, and I brush the realization off, until it dawns upon me that Hector raised his voice for me to hear. Because he _wants_ me to hear.

Because he wants _me _on his team.

My mouth gapes a little, but I close it tightly and take a deep breath. Can I go to District 13? Can I really do that? Can I risk my life for the life of others? Am I really that selfless already?

"I'll come." Abel's voice takes me by surprise. He doesn't move, but he gives Hector a small nod when he turns around.

"So we need only one person now…" Hector's voice trails off as a new suggestion from Eris demands a fresh roll of arguments.

I think about Levi and all that he has done. Surely he has saved multitudes of lives, and I have not a doubt that he has touched multiple people. He protected me and the rest of the family by not telling us about the Alliance, he further protected me by jumping into that river to save me and sacrifice himself, and he spent his whole life in the Alliance.

All these good things he did and yet he is dead.

And I come to a conclusion that no, I cannot do it.

I stand up, and the sound of my chair dragging against the carpet pulls their attention. Hector looks back at me expectantly, raising both eyebrows, thinking I will step in and become the courageous Skye that reminds him of his little sister, Helen. But there's a reason why she's dead.

"I have to go to bed, now," is all I say.

Hector releases a sigh and disappointment cloaks his features again.

I can tell Rita expected me to step in, too, but she doesn't seem as indignant as Hector. She clears her throat and says softly, "The bunks are on the sixteenth floor, Skye."

I give them a nod goodnight and turn my back on them. Slowly, silently, I walk to the elevator. Nobody continues the discussion. Nobody makes a sound. Only when I push the elevator button and the doors split open do I hear a peep out of them.

"I had courage in you."

I look over my shoulder slowly, and I stare into Hector's passionate, hurt eyes. I swallow the tightness in my throat and lick my dry lips.

"Courage kills," I say in a shaky, nearly inaudible voice.

And then I step into the elevator, leaving it all behind.


	20. Funeral

The moment I step into the elevator, I know I should press the button _16 _for the bunks floor, but I press for the ground floor instead. I don't know why, but I just do. And as the elevator shoots up, a sickening feeling eats through my stomach. Suddenly, I feel sad. Vaguely I wonder why.

Did I _want _to go to District 13? I don't know.

For whatever reason it was, it doesn't matter anymore. It can't change the fact that I've just backed away from my very first Alliance mission like the coward I am. It can't change the fact that I've just disappointed Hector. Most of all, it can't change the fact that I've just failed my brother.

Somehow, that last thought burdens my heart more than the others. But I push it away as the elevator doors part to reveal the fancy ground lobby, where Alliance Inc. is no longer an underground alliance bent on overthrowing the Capitol, but simply another delivery company.

The lounge looks exactly like it did earlier, except now all the employees have settled down. Only a handful of people are left from the hustle-and-bustle crowd that was here two hours ago. As I walk from the elevator to the velvet sofa sitting at the middle of the lounge, some employees give me passing glances as they make their way out of the Alliance and home. Vaguely, I wonder if they have any part of the Alliance—the _real _alliance—downstairs. Maybe, maybe not. I will probably never know.

I don't know how long I sit down there. Nobody takes notice of me. Rita and the others probably think I'm off to bed at the bunks floor already, but I've already made my mind. I'm not sleeping here. I'm not having anything to do with the Alliance anymore.

After a good while, I hear loud laughter drifting out of one of the elevators to my right as the doors open. Oakley steps out with Darius—the redheaded, cherub-faced young boy—and they're both laughing their hearts out. Oakley is laughing so hard that tears literally trickle down his cheek.

I touch my own. I wonder how long it's been since I've cried happy tears.

Neither of them even know I'm here until, in their loud chorus, they plump down on the sofa across me. Oakley is still oblivious to the world. Darius finally catches his breath though, still chuckling a little, then looks up.

"Oh, hey!" he chirps with a pleasant grin. "You're Skye."

That brings Oakley into focus, but he's still laughing too much to be able to talk. He shakes his hand at me muddily, and I interpret that to be a wave.

I can't help it. I smile a little at them. "Yeah, that's me."

Oakley gathers himself enough to choke out some words between laughter. "I've—I've—I've got another one!" he announces. "What's—What's up?"

I shrug. I'd answer him, but it sounds like he's telling a joke so I let him say the punchline.

He holds his laughter a little for dramatic effect, then he blurts out, "The _Skye_! That's what's up! You!" Then he breaks out laughing again and Darius joins him.

It's a bit contagious. Before I know it, I'm chuckling along. It's not the funniest joke, but Oakley's face compensates for any lacking of humor. Which is good, because I don't want to seem depressed or even rude.

I'm glad it's Oakley and Darius and not _them_—the others in the Alliance. If they see me now, they might ask me one more time to come with them to District 13. And I don't know if I'll be able to refuse them this time, which is the biggest problem. I stop chuckling as the disappointment swallows me up again.

That's when Oakley notices. When I stop laughing. His laughter dies away and he does a double-take at me. First his glance is questioning, then it becomes accusing.

Oh, lovely. Here we go again.

Immediately, Oakley sits up and gets on my case. "Why aren't you at the meeting downstairs?"

Darius has only noticed the quick change of mood now, and he snickers until he quiets down completely. He glances between Oakley and I, trying to figure out what we're talking about.

I shrug, as if I have no idea. "Meeting? Nobody told me about it."

Oakley squints at me suspiciously. "Where's Abel?" he suddenly asks.

"I don't know," I lie with a mock confusion. "Peacekeeper Lively took him away to discuss some things. I think he might take a while."

He nods, considering this. Slowly, his sits back. I let out a subtle sigh of relief, but then he asks me another question. "Why aren't you at the bunks floor, then? Shouldn't you be asleep by now? Big journey ahead of you tomorrow." His voice has given up its accusing tone and becomes nonchalant and knowing.

Right then and there, I know I'm busted.

Of course Oakley knows about District 13. I wonder if they have been planning to take me to District 13 all along and have only been playing a game of pretend-spontaneous-planning for my benefit. If they have, then I've made a good choice by leaving them. Or so I think.

"Skye?" Oakley repeats. "Why aren't you at the bunks floor right now? Answer the question."

"I'm not sleepy right now," I say, shrinking under his authoritative gaze.

"Not sleepy right now… or not going to District 13 tomorrow?" he guesses.

I wince.

"Skye," he says slowly. "Did you join the team for D13?"

I remain silent.

"Did you?"

I gather the guts to look up. I plan to look him in the eye and say yes, I _did _join the team headed for District 13 tomorrow. But as soon as I behold his discomfited expression, I falter. My mouth hangs open drily, ready to extricate myself from this difficult situation. But no words are forthcoming.

"You chickened out," he says, more to himself than me. Then he shoots up, somewhat irritated. "You backed out of it, didn't you? You know, your brother would've gone! He would have. You're not doing yourself any favors by ditching us, Skye. You're not."

I chill runs up my spine at his statement. The way he said it… it sounded like… like a threat. I shake my head. Of course, he didn't mean it as a threat. He's only reasonably angry with me. He wants me to go to District 13 for the sake of the Alliance.

"You're just pitiful," Oakley says in a hoarse whisper. But it hurts like a knife.

"Oakley, that's enough."

I turn toward the elevators, where the voice came from. Sure enough, Peacekeeper Lively emerges from the seams. He still looks disappointed, but he doesn't give me accusing glances at least. Somehow, however, his sad gaze is more than enough to pull me back into shame.

"You two—to bed," he commands Oakley and Darius.

Oakley shoots me one last impeaching glance and storms off into one elevator, leaving young Darius behind. The little redhead catches my eye and gives me an apologetic smile. Then he hops off and enters a different elevator.

When both of them are gone, Peacekeeper Lively sighs and turns to me. "What a mess," he remarks.

"Yeah, I am," I admit.

He shakes his head. "Not you, Skye. When his anger is struck, Oakley leaves quite a mess. You can't hear it now because the underground Alliance is soundproof. But tomorrow, you'll see. Not a single urn will be left unbroken on Floor 16."

I let out a shaky chuckle. "I don't think… I don't think I'm going to get the chance to see it tomorrow," I mutter.

Peacekeeper Lively snaps out of his reverie, looking back at me. "Sorry? What was that? You're not seeing it tomorrow? Of course, you will! It's going to be all over the place."

"No, it's not that," I say, struggling to find the right words. "I—I'm not going to get to see it tomorrow because I'm… I'm not staying the night."

There. I've said it. I prepare myself for an onslaught of reasoning from the wise Peacekeeper Lively, but all he does is smile at me sadly.

"Do you really wish to leave, Skye?" he asks me. It sounds like he's begging me to stay inwardly.

I nod. "I'm sure of it."

He sighs. "Well, then, I can't force you to stay. If we forced people to be a part of us, we'd be just like the Capitol, now wouldn't we?"

I stare at his steel blue eyes for a while, digesting his words. The more I realize what he means, the more I can't believe it.

"So I can go?" I ask incredulously.

Peacekeeper Lively nods. "You can go," he assures me. "But know this, Skye Reese: You're not permitted to speak a word about the Alliance to anyone outside of it. And in actual truth, it would be best if you stayed out of our way entirely. Unless you decide to officially join us again."

I fervently shake my head. "Never. I can't, Peacekeeper Lively."

He nods again, but this time, it's one solemn and brief nod. One of acceptance. "I don't blame you, Skye," he says to me softly. "You are a good person. You'll come in your own time." When he sees the emphatic look on my face, he quickly adds, "And your own way. There are more ways to battle the Capitol than just joining the Alliance. Whatever way fate has for you, Skye, I hope you find it."

"Me, too," I sigh.

And with that, Peacekeeper Lively leads me out to the parking lot. I'm surprised to find that they had brought our cars here. I assumed they left it some few miles away from here where the men in black knocked us out.

Peacekeeper Lively takes the keys to my car from the guard standing at the gate and he hands it to me. I clutch the metal as if my life depends on it. And it probably does.

"People will be watching you all the way into the city, Skye," Peacekeeper Lively informs me. "I can't let you go unguarded, and in the middle of the night, too. Don't worry. You'll be safe as soon as you get to the Capitol Main."

I nod. That's slightly reassuring.

"Well, goodbye," I tell him.

"Say goodbye to Levi for me," he says. I know what he means. The funeral. It's in a couple of days. Peacekeeper Lively doesn't need to say it; he can't come to the burial. His presence will give away too much about the Alliance already.

I nod at him stiffly as a final goodbye and hop into my car. Well, that's that. My chance to be part of the Alliance—buried.

Within a few seconds, I'm out of the Alliance and driving toward the city. It's a good thing my car has a GPS, because I realize I'm so far away from my home—the farthest I've ever gone by myself. And it's ten minutes to midnight.

I get home in one piece. As soon as my car hits the driveway, my mother bursts out of the house, running toward me frantically. My father follows, less urgently, but still quite worriedly. They both question me about where I've been and why I've been out so late.

"At a friend's," I keep answering blankly. "I was at a friend's."

They ask me which friend, and I don't know who to say because they will most probably call those kids' houses and ask their parents if I really was there, and that would get messy. Suddenly, I think of Abel. He's eighteen now, lives alone. Doesn't have to deal with parents at all.

"I was at Abel's house," I say.

My mother knows the name, I can tell by the spark of recognition in her eyes. "Abel… Harter?" she asks. "Your brother's friend?"

"He's my friend, too," I say. Or at least, I think he still is. If he comes back alive from District 13, I'll have to check with him on that.

"Did you two—?" My father leaves his question hanging, a look of discomfort on his face. I don't understand it at first, but then my cheeks burn with realization.

"No, we didn't!" I reply urgently. Then I give them a tired look. It's not completely conjured up—I really am tired. "I'm really tired, so can I just sleep now? I've been driving for hours."

Thankfully, they let me go. My mother leads me to my room and asks if I want her to sing me a lullaby. She usually does this when I can't put myself to sleep late at night. But I don't need anyone's company tonight.

I brush her off.

The next few days are a blur. I wake up, take a bath, dress, undress, eat a little, sleep. The cycle repeats. It's summer now and school doesn't start for me until after the Victory Tour, so there's barely anything to do. One day, my cousin, Cinna stops by to keep me company for a few hours, but he has to leave immediately.

"I've just been hired by Elavia Strimmer!" he tells me. Vaguely, I recognize the name. I believe she has been one of the designers for District 4 for a few years now. "She expects me to be at her side every week! You see, she's trying to come up with a concept for the next tributes this fall! I'll be helping her. Isn't that exciting?"

I nod and smile, because it really is exciting. District 4 is high up the list. Cinna really could be a famous designer someday after all.

"Don't worry, I'll be at Levi's funeral on Friday," he tells me in a quieter, solemn voice.

I accompany him to the door as he leaves for work late that night, and I'm left alone again.

The day after that, I mistily remember my eighteenth birthday is coming next week—Monday, was it?—and that invites some work. I have to pack my things. It's ceremonial here in the Capitol to hold a huge party the night before your birthday at the new house the Capitol assigns you to. Then you are to sleep there after the party for the very first time, alone.

Though with all my friends away and my brother dead, I don't know who to invite. I don't think I'll even have a party. It's strange. Two years ago, I thought my eighteenth birthday would be the highlight of my life. Now it only reminds me of things, people, and chances I've lost.

Despite all that, I'm glad to have something to do finally, because anything's better than sitting around and feeling miserable. But I'd rather it be something other than moving out. It's lonely enough here in my parents' home. What will life be like when I'm all alone?

I try not to dwell on it too much, and when I'm not thinking, I get work done quickly. By the end of the day, I've got all my belongings packed up in boxes. My clothes are arranged in suitcases neatly, too. When my parents come home from work later that night, they're surprised to see my things packed. I guess they forgot I was turning eighteen. Neither of them protest, though. It's just how things are.

Friday comes and it's time to bury my brother. The morticians took quite a while fixing my brother up. The last time I saw my brother was the time before I almost drowned. They kept him away at the morgue, grooming him to perfection. I haven't seen him dead yet. Today will be the first and last time.

I wake up that morning and slide off of bed. As I walk toward my bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself from my special mirror lined with lightbulbs. They're not on. They're never on now. When they're lit, they attract my attention and I'm forced to look into the mirror. Forced to look at the mess reflected against it.

I don't make an effort to look away today, though. I'll have to fix myself up and make myself presentable for the funeral. I stare into the mirror. I don't look like myself anymore. Bags under my eyes have collected. I don't look gleeful. I can't believe a few months ago, I was smiling like an idiot at myself here and admiring my white teeth.

I sigh and head into the bathroom. I take a shower. I don't use the butterscotch scent I used to bathe in before. It reminds me too much of Levi and the better days. Instead, I press one of the thousand buttons for a muted scent of wilted roses.

I step out and dress in a black shirt and some pants. I wear a long black coat over it and slip my feet into soft shoes.

"Skye, it's time to get going," my father's tired voice buzzes through the intercom. I shake my head at how strangely similar his words are today to what he said two months ago, when Levi was still alive. Only now, his tone is grave and weary, and he's not driving us out to go on a fantastic fieldtrip. Just a funeral.

I hesitate for a moment before holding the microphone button down. "Coming," I say drily, just as I had said to him before.

My parents and I take a quiet drive to the cemetery where Levi's body will be buried. Nobody speaks. In the silence, all you can hear is the soft purr of the engine. It's something of a long drive to the cemetery—a good hour and a half. By the time we get there, there's a sense of relief. Nobody's looking forward to burying my brother, but I think neither of us liked riding the car that much. It's too reminiscent of Levi.

Only the people from the cemetery company are here so far. They stand stiffly next to a casket suspended over a deep hole in the ground by a crane-like machine. I've never seen anyone buried before. Both my grandparents were cremated. Not a lot of people die in the Capitol, so I haven't had much of a sane reason to come and visit here.

At first, I'm a bit hesitant. But my mother gently urges me forward with a small nod. _Everything's going to be all right, _I translate the expression on her face. So slowly, I inch toward the white casket engraved with vine-like golden patterns, and I crane my neck to see through the glass.

And my heart breaks. My throat becomes tight. I blink back tears and take deep, measured breaths. _Levi. _He's so handsome. I suppose they've painted him with make up, because his cheeks are slightly rosy—something that wouldn't happen, were he still alive. He's not even pale. He looks as if he could just be sleeping, with his arms across his chest. It's like he's still here, still alive. My hand reaches out to stroke his hair, but the glass stops me and I come back to reality.

He's dead. Always going to be.

I feel like wailing out right now, but I can't—not with my parents watching. The sobs keep pushing their way out my throat, though, and I slip up a little but regain my composure quickly.

All three of us take turns staring sadly into the casket for a few minutes before a man in a black suit with a tiny black book lined with gold comes. My father tells me he is someone called a "minister," though I actually have no idea what that is. The minister greets us with condolences and asks if we've arranged for a private funeral, because there seems to be no one around.

"No," I answer in a monotone. "It's not a private funeral."

My father just shrugs. "Give it a couple of minutes. Maybe Levi's friends have taken a while to get here," he reasons. "Morning rush hour is always the worst."

But it's not just morning rush hour. A quarter of an hour passes, and nobody comes. Eventually, the men from the cemetery company tell us that they can't wait much longer out here; they have another people to bury.

"Then we'll bury him now, then," my father says. Upon hearing that, my mother bursts out in tears, and I have to gulp down the tightness in my throat.

_Nobody has come to see Levi away._

The minister asks us if we'd like to say a few words before we proceed with burying him. My father isn't much of a man of words. My mother is still sobbing. The tightness in my throat just won't give. We all shake our heads.

The minister nods, and proceeds with a ceremony unfamiliar to me. He flips through his little black book and reads to us. _"Those who are wise will shine as bright as the sky, and those who turn many to righteousness will shine like stars forever."_ Then he turns to a different part of the book and continues, _"Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty. This I declare of the Lord: He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; he is my God, and I am trusting in him. For he will rescue you from every trap and protect you from the fatal plague."_

I eye the book in his hands curiously. I've never seen one like it before. It doesn't seem like one of those best-sellers they have in the Capitol bookstore. I'd actually like to ask him what it is, because all this talk of a God that will rescue me from every trap and protect me from the fatal plague interests me quite a lot, but a voice cuts me off from behind, shouting, "Wait!"

We're all startled into looking over our shoulders. There's a woman, dark-skinned and elegant in a lovely black suit and pencil skirt, with dark sunglasses concealing her eyes. She's walking toward us briskly, and only when she stops right on front of me do I recognize her.

Prissca.

"We send our deepest condolences," she says. "Levi was an astounding young man."

My parents glance at me curiously, and immediately I realize how incredibly stupid the Alliance was to send Prissca over to Levi's funeral. It's going to give too much away. And yet here stands Prissca, ready to see Levi away.

"Thank you," I say. I'm about to say her name, just to let her know that I recognize her, but I think better of it. The Alliance is already in enough trouble by sending her over. I made a promise to protect it and its members, even though I'm no longer a part of it.

Prissca extends her fist toward me. "I believe this is yours, Skye Reese." Hesitantly, I hold my hand out underneath and she releases her grip. A necklace with obsidian rock—the one I found in Levi's room last week—drops on my palm. I must've left it at the Alliance that night.

"Thank you," I say again, but it's barely a whisper. "And thank you for coming."

She nods. "My pleasure," she tells me. "But I must be going now."

I frown. "Aren't you staying to see Levi buried?"

"I'd like to, but I'm quite busy," she says. "I'm terribly sorry." And she sounds like she really is.

I nod. "That's all right. Goodbye."

"Thank you for understanding," Prissca says, and then the corners of her mouth tilt upward conspiratorially as if we share a little inside joke. "I will see you soon, Skye Reese."

And then she turns her back on us, walking away quickly. I stare at her until she disappears through the cemetery gates. _I will see you soon, Skye Reese. _There's just something very eerie about the way she said that, as if she knew I'd be coming back. Not possible.

I look over my shoulder at my parents and the minister. They're eyeing me quizzically, but I don't explain, and thankfully, they don't push me. The funeral goes on as if no interruption has been made. We sneak a last look at Levi, and then they lower his casket slowly.

His casket hits the ground with a thump. They bury him, soil over wood. He's dead—it's a fact I've already accepted so long ago. But somehow, this funeral, this final act, seals it for sure. Levi is gone.

Fear grips my heart suddenly. I'm afraid. Afraid of forgetting his face, his voice, his loving manner. Already I cannot recall the exact sweet sound of his voice, calling me his little sister, his little clear Blue Skye. And it kills me, these little things. They are precious.


	21. Party

**Author's Note:** Some people have started asking me now how far I'm willing to take this story. I'm not going to tell you exactly when I plan to finish this, because that would give away too much about the plot, but anyway, I figure this story will be one of those forty to fifty chaptered ones. Hopefully, no one gets sick of it. I have more action in mind after this chapter, actually, and whatever time I lost by writing about Levi's death will be quickly picked up.

Also, when Mockingjay comes out and it turns out nothing like my story, I'll continue on my merry way and pretend it didn't happen.

Okay, nobody really cares. Here's chapter twenty-one.

* * *

Fall comes and goes, and winter takes its place—one of the signs that time is passing, moving on. I'm eighteen now. I didn't have a huge party for my birthday, but I did have some people over at the house the Capitol assigned me to. Cinna, his parents, and my parents came to celebrate my birthday with me that night, but as was customary, they had to leave before the stroke of midnight.

It isn't that bad, living alone in a huge house. A little lonely at times, but I've shut out majority of the world since even before I moved in here, so there's little difference. Besides, Cinna still comes over a lot—at least three times a week. He's busy with work, but he makes time for me. Perhaps he knows how isolated I've been these days and intends to fix that.

One night, I open my door to him. He looks handsome in a white suit and a gold tie, his hair combed back. He carries a duffel bag over his shoulder and a large paper bag in his hand. He sports a huge grin that can only mean one thing—excitement, schemes, and all that lovely stuff. Add it all together, and what does that spell out? Trouble, that's what.

I give him a meaningful look. "Whatever you're planning, Cinna, drop it," I say warningly.

"Not a chance," he tells me. "You're going to a party tonight."

I'm about to say something witty in return, but I don't get the chance. He pushes his way into my house, pulling me along. I protest indignantly, but his iron grip around my wrist is too strong to wriggle out of. Cinna drags me up to my room and orders me to sit on my bed. I do as he says sulkily, and he sets his bags on the ground, digging through them.

Articles of clothes are flying around everywhere all of the sudden. Cinna unpacks everything in his duffel bag and sends it soaring toward my bed. In approximately one minute, my bedroom turns into a dressing room. Cinna sets a whole batch of makeup and accessories on my vanity dresser, and then, once everything has found its place, he turns to me with that ridiculous grin of his.

I sigh. "I suppose I can't convince you to leave me alone?"

"Not tonight," he says happily.

"Well, if I can't fight it, I might as well endure it," I mumble.

Cinna perks up even more, if that's possible. "Well, I think you should at least know what you're walking into," he says, and then he explains to me what exactly he has in mind for the night. "It's the Victory Tour, if you remember, and the last Hunger Games' victor, Reed Hethlon from District Four, has already made his way through the districts. He's here at the Capitol tonight, and there's this huge victory party at President Snow's house and—"

"And you expect us to crash it?" I interrupt him incredulously. My mouth drops so low that it's practically touching the floor. I mean, crashing an average party could get you in trouble. Crashing a party that the president throws… Well, whatever you're going to get at the end of it can't be a thank-you-for-coming giveaway.

"Heavens, no!" he cries. "I'm invited to it!"

"Invited?" I echo.

He nods excessively. "Remember? I work for a certain important person named Elavia Strimmer, and she was Reed Hethlon's stylist in the last Games."

"Oh." It hits me. Cinna actually has a social life, unlike some people I know…

"But don't worry, Skye, I'm allowed to bring one guest to accompany me," he goes on explaining. "And guess who I chose!"

My shoulders sag. "Let me guess… could it be, let's see… me?" I say in a monotone.

"Oh, well, don't get too excited now," he laughs.

"Believe me, I won't," I mutter under my breath and sigh. "So let me get this straight—you're invited to a big-shot party with big-shot people, and you're taking _me_."

"No, I'm going to dig Levi's grave up and take him."

His remark, meant to be funny, stings me. I clutch the rock of the necklace I found in Levi's room—something I tend to do now whenever I miss Levi. Cinna's comment has ripped my wound open and rubbed salt into it. Cinna must know it, too, because he immediately winces as if regretting his words.

"I'm sorry, Skye, that was out-of-line of me to say that," he apologizes. "I wasn't thinking."

"That's all right, I get it," I say, but there's a chill in the air now.

Cinna sighs and looks me in the eyes. "Listen, Skye, Levi's gone now, there's nothing either of us can do about it. I wish it wasn't so, but it is, and we have to accept it. Now, if Levi ever miraculously came back to life and he heard about how you've been sulking around alone because he died, do you think it would make him happy?"

I hesitate for a moment, but then Cinna raises an eyebrow at me intently. _Be honest, _I translate it. I sigh and shake my head.

"So you're going to the party tonight," says Cinna. "And you're going to have fun and meet new people and maybe even meet Reed Hethlon. Do we have that clear?"

Since there's probably no way I'm getting out of this, I agree on Cinna's terms and immediately he goes into action. He commands me into a dress and shoes, but he doesn't let me take a look at myself through the mirror no matter how much I ask.

"It's a surprise," he tells me. "But you'll look astonishing when we're done, I promise you."

Finally, after about an hour and a half of putting things on, having my makeup done, and waiting on Cinna's every beck and call, we're done, and Cinna leads me to the mirror. And I'm absolutely slack-jawed by the woman poised in front of me right now.

Her face is relatively clear of makeup, but some youthful blush has been applied and some golden eyeliner, too. Her deep brown hair has been curled and scatters in ways not unlike the ocean. She wears a single band of gold on her head as if it's some kind of crown, and her dress is just so far beyond beautiful. The sleeves of the dress swoop here and there bringing it down to a somewhat low neckline. I can't tell what color the material is, because when the woman moves, the colors change like the iridescent surface of a pearl. The silk cleaves on her skin flatteringly, and vine-like patterns of gold weave around the high-waist cut. The dress runs down to the ground like pearly water.

She looks like a goddess. And I can't believe she's me.

I smile. I can't help it. Despite the fact my brother has been long dead for months now, I'm not a part of the Alliance anymore, and I haven't spoken to my friends in months—and I don't even know if they're still alive—Cinna has managed to make me happy. At least a little bit. But it's enough.

"Do you like it?" Cinna asks with a huge grin. He knows my answer.

"No," I say. And then I break out laughing. "I love it!"

He smiles again mischeviously, but this time, I'm less haunted by it.

"Then let's go have the best night of our lives."

President Snow's mansion is glowing—literally. Even from outside the wrought iron gates, you can see a golden aura jump off of it. It's not the first time I've seen these kind of lights. We use them quite frequently here in the Capitol for parties, weddings, anniversaries, and the likes. They're called lumine lights, and they're designed to disperse evenly through a length of space to create the illusion of glowing instead of casting a concentrated beam like a flashlight does. But even if I'm perfectly familiar with them, I've never seen them used like this. President Snow's mansion looks absolutely heavenly.

"Eighteen years in the Capitol, and yet I have never seen anything as beautiful as this," I remark.

Cinna smiles. "President Snow has a way of impressing, wouldn't you say?"

"Absolutely," I breathe.

"This is it," Cinna says excitedly. "Let's go."

Cinna stops our car in front of the mansion and a chauffeur opens Cinna's door for him. He jumps out without hesitation, handing the keys to a valet, and patiently waits for me. With my long dress, it takes a while for me to slide out, but when I finally do, I have to catch my breath. The mansion is even more beautiful from outside.

Cinna smiles at me again and leads me to the door where a visibly important man in a suit awaits us. He gives us a polite nod.

"Name please?" the man says.

"Cinna Reese," replies Cinna, and then he gestures to me. "And my guest. My cousin, Skye Reese."

The man nods us in, saying we're on the list, and the doors automatically open for us to enter. Another man in a suit ushers us from the anteroom into the banquet room, where the party is held. A few hallways and another set of fancy doors later, and immediately, when I walk into the banquet room, I am slack-jawed.

I've seen multiple Victory Tours on the television; President Snow hosts the last leg of it in this very room every year. But the theme always changes, and this year, the theme appears to be immortal paradise.

The ceiling is so far above—forty feet at least—and a rich cloud of gold in gas form dances across it. Little floating white lights waft all around the room, too, like stars. The room is like a magical garden in some ways, with the lush green grass carpeted across the floor, the beautiful, gnarled trees sprouting forth from the ground and bearing golden fruit of all shapes and sizes. Various plants and flowers of different colors decorate the banquet room. Tables of food line the walls. Crystalline mini waterfalls each cascade down to their own little ponds at each corner of the room. Each waterfall is a different color—gold, silver, emerald, ruby. At the center of the room, a gray marble square is stationed, where people can dance and socialize. Musicians with golden instruments play on elevated marble pedestals.

"Whoa," is the only thing I can think to say.

"Whoa," Cinna agrees.

We both stand there, absorbing it all in for a while, but then we're torn out of our reveries when a fancy female voice shouts out: "Cinna!"

We both glance toward the speaker. It's Elavia Strimmer. I recognize her from the pictures and videos on the television. She's a woman in her mid-twenties with close-cropped bronze hair—literally metallic bronze—and sheer leopard-like tattoos of the same color to match. As she approaches us, I have to stop myself from staring at her eyes. Emerald irises—but that's not the weird part. They're exactly like a cat's in form and shape.

"Cinna, you're much too late!" she purrs in her thick Capitol accent. "You've missed all the action, my dear little protégé! Ginger and Riva have had too many drinks to count, and I've already had three glasses of Emesis!" She laughs excessively, and I think that perhaps she's had too many drinks to count, too. Or maybe she's just naturally like that.

Cinna smiles politely. "I'm sorry, Elavia. I had to pick up my cousin, Skye Reese." He gestures to me again.

Elavia gathers herself and looks at me for the first time. A look of what I think might be approval crosses her face. "Oh, excuse me, my dear, for being so terribly rude!" she pipes and offers me a hand. "Hello there, Skye Reese! I'm Elavia Strimmer."

I take her hand and grip it warmly. "It's a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Strimmer. I've heard so much about you. Thank you for choosing my cousin for your design team. He won't fail you."

"Please, just call me Elavia," she insists good-naturedly. "And I know Cinna won't fail me; he's much too talented for that! But my, my! It looks like Cinna's good looks run in the family, eh? You're an enthralling young woman, Skye. Why, it seems to me as if every bachelor in this room has his sights on you!"

I attempt to give her a thrilled grin, but all I can manage is a decent smile. Attention is really the last thing I'd like to receive tonight, but standing here right next to the victor's stylist doesn't get me anything _but _attention. I can tell Cinna realizes this, because he quickly tries to excuse us from Elavia's presence, but she suddenly remembers something and says that she has to excuse Cinna for a moment.

At first, I have to register what she means, but then I realize she's going to take Cinna away. I only have a second to protest before she drags him away. He glances back at me guiltily and mouths the words _be right back _and disappears through the crowd with Elavia, leaving me alone.

I sigh and wince. All alone at a party where I don't know a single human soul. Wonderful. What great luck I'm having tonight, sincerely.

Attempting not to look utterly out of place, I trudge toward the table with the deserts. When I get there, I try to pick out one delicacy to eat, but everything looks so lovely that I can't decide. My hand hovers uncertainly over the piles upon piles of cupcakes, cookies, and sweets.

"Try the silver one."

I jump a little, taken aback. I look over my shoulder and get the surprise of my life when I see Finnick Odair—Reed Hethlon's mentor and the victor of the 64th Hunger Games—standing right behind me with a sympathetic smile on his face. I have to look left and right just to make sure he's not talking to someone else.

Nobody has lied about his good looks. I've seen him on television, but it's nothing like seeing him in the flesh. He's immensely charming with those sea green eyes that look like bright emerald stones against his gold tan and bronze hair. He looks amazing in a simple black suit and tie. He's two years younger than me, but he's a good head taller than I am. Maybe I should feel spellbound right now, but all I can think of is how this boy of sixteen has killed kids younger than me. I try to imagine a sharp weapon—a bronze trident—in his hands, ready to skewer me. A shiver runs down my spine.

"What?" I croak out. Very articulate, I know.

He chuckles, as if he finds me amusing. "I said, try the silver one. The cupcake, I mean. It's delightful."

"Is it," I manage.

"Immensely," he says, and grins as he extends a hand my way. "I'm Finnick Odair."

I should take his hand, but now that I've visualized him with a weapon of mass destruction, I don't exactly feel like doing it. "Skye Reese," I introduce myself, but I only glance at his hand oddly as if handshakes were the epitome of discourtesy in my world.

His hand is still sticking out. When he realizes I'm not taking it, he pulls it back awkwardly. "Reese?" he echoes with a brooding look on his face. "I know someone named Reese."

I nod. "Probably Cinna Reese, my cousin."

His eyes widen. "Cinna is your cousin?"

"Yeah," I say, somewhat surprised. "Cinna _Reese_. You knew that, didn't you?"

He frowns and shakes his head. "No, I didn't. I mean, I _do _know Cinna, yes. He's Elavia's new assistant, right? I've never known his last name was Reese. But I really swear I've met another Reese before."

"That's strange," I say. There aren't that many other Reeses here in the Capitol. Just my father's family, and Cinna's.

Finnick Odair snaps his fingers, trying to summon something from his memory. "What was his name? Leroy? Lefroy? Lever?"

My throat tightens, and I lick my dry lips. "Levi?" I suggest.

He brightens and laughs. "Yes, that's it! Levi Reese. I met him last year, at the tourist spot for the arena from the 64th Hunger Games. His school had me as a guest for their fieldtrip."

Yes, I remember now. Levi's Junor Fieldtrip was to the arena from the 64th Hunger Games, and naturally, the victor from that particular Games was there.

"Lovely," is all I can say.

"How do you know Levi Reese? Is he a cousin, a distant relative, a friend?"

"A brother," I say, holding my breath.

To Finnick Odair, this is a pleasant surprise. And it shows on his face. He's proud of knowing some Capitol people, I suppose. Among all the victors, he is perhaps the most popular. He's dated girls from his district, girls from the Capitol, young girls, old girls, rich, and poor. So by nature, he knows his way around names and such. What a surprise it is that he's familiar with mine.

"That's great!" says Finnick Odair. "Levi Reese, your brother!" He laughs with delight. "How is he? Where is he? Is he here?"

I clear my throat. "He's dead," I answer in a monotone.

This catches Finnick Odair off guard. His grin melts away hesitantly, thinking I'm messing with him. But I'm not. "Can you say that again?" he says. "I don't think I heard you right. You said, he's dead?"

I nod.

Horror covers his features. "How—how long ago?" he asks.

_Five months, two weeks, and three days ago, _I think. I don't know, I haven't intentionally kept track of the days, but they just seemed to automatically sum up in my mind. Out loud, I only shrug and say, "For a while now."

That blows him away. A Capitol teenager—dead. Highly unlikely. "Wow," Finnick Odair breaths. "That's just… that's… wow." He runs a hand through his bronze hair and lets out another sigh. "Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

I hold up my hand with a weary smile. "Don't. It's okay."

"Well, anyway, you should have fun at this party. Don't feel guilty and all that. Not that you would feel guilty because I'm sure that you had nothing—I mean, you didn't—that you weren't—" He stammers. What's this? A killer has trouble speaking of death?

"The silver one, right?" I cut him off with a wan smile.

He blinks. "What?"

"The cupcakes," I remind him. "The silver one's delightful, is it not?"

"_Um, _yeah," he says finally, albeit a little confusedly.

I pick a silver cupcake from the tray, taking a tentative bite. He's right; it really is delightful. I regard him one last time with a nod. "It's been interesting, Finnick Odair; goodbye," I say, and walk away.

After that, I try not to bump into anyone whom I might know. I hang around, meet a couple of new people, and drink wine. As it turns out, the crystalline waterfalls are actually drinks. I fill a wineglass with the gold liquid and find that it tastes incredibly sweet. It's like sensory overload.

I meet some people: Girls named Silvana, Aglaia, and Clio. They're nice enough, but they're only party friends. I don't think I may ever want to keep in touch with them. They're too rowdy, too wild for my taste. But I'm having fun right now and that's all that matters. For a moment, I actually think that perhaps I could be normal for a change. But as per usual, I'm terribly wrong.

After a while of snatching food from the tables, the girls get too full to eat and they suggest we take a drink of Emesis and a trip to the bathroom. They insist that I should come, but I decline the offer politely. I don't like taking Emesis. I hate vomiting. It's disgusting, it hurts the stomach, and it hurts the throat. I can't understand why anyone would want to induce it on purpose, even if it does mean some extra space in their stomachs for more food.

So the three of them stagger off for the drinks, nearly incoherent with alcohol. I haven't had that much to drink yet because I honestly don't like how spirits taste, so I'm pretty sober. I decide that Cinna has been away for too long already and I proceed to find him.

Just as I turn and resolve on getting my cousin back from the clutches of Elavia Strimmer, I bump into someone squarely. I might've fallen, except strong arms gripped me and saved me from humiliation. After a few seconds, it occurs to me that I'm still in this person's arms, and then I start to realize that he's hugging me.

Confused, I blink a few times, but I can't wriggle free from his grasp to look up at his face and find out who this person is. I catch a whiff—it's just a soft scent of pine trees—and suddenly I know exactly who this is. But I can't believe it—I don't want to believe it because I could just be wrong.

"I'm so glad you're safe, Skye!"

Oh, no. That voice. I know that voice.

The stranger pulls free from the hug, but he still holds me in his arms slightly. Slowly, carefully, hesitantly, I look up at his face. And I see that he is no stranger at all.

"Abel?" I breathe.


	22. Abandonment

**Author's Note: **Hello, people of the fan-fiction writing world. I have come back from beyond the grave that is schoolwork to visit you in the hopes that you have not forgotten my story like I have. I'm a terrible writer, and I'm so sorry for abandoning you all. I really can't make excuses because if I had really wanted to keep writing, I would have found time to. But I guess I kind of lost my fervor when Mockingjay came out, because I realized my story was so far off from it. But now I'm back, and I plan to make it work.

Some of you may or may not care, but I updated because of one review that just wrenched my heart. It was from someone named Molly. She said, "Please keep updating! It's been a while since you have and I stuck with it so you should too!" I guess it really struck a chord. You guys haven't failed me, so I won't fail you, either.

You probably want to read this chapter now, since you've been waiting six months for it. Well, here goes. Enjoy!

**This chapter is dedicated to Molly.**

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One look at him, and images of everything pass before my incredulous eyes. The events at the arena, the river, the drowning, the Alliance—a wave of memories that took me five months to confine with lock and key in the empty depths of my heart, but only took a moment's glance at Abel to unleash it all again. The pain is fresh, the anxiety is fresh, but so is the joy.

"Abel?" I repeat, because I just can't believe he's here. He looks a lot different, too, so that just adds to it.

The first thing I notice is his skin tone—it's changed greatly since the last time I've seen him. He's much darker now. His hair is also a bit darker, though I don't know why, and it's tousled as if he's been running for a while. His blue eyes are still the same color and, in this case, they seem to pop out more prominently. And I'll tell you what else about him is popping out more prominently: his cheekbones. He's lost some weight. The boy looks hagard and hungry, and at that thought, I notice he's only wearing a plain gray shirt, matching camouflage pants, and black combat boots—not at all appropriate for this event. He doesn't even look Capitol anymore.

A look of utter relief crosses his face, but before he can reply, someone yanks me free from him. I look over my shoulder and see Cinna, grasping me possessively. I glance back at Abel. Two men in black suits grab him, one with each arm.

"Hey!" I protest. "Cinna, let go of me!"

He ignores me. "Don't touch my cousin!" he says to Abel with a tone so violent and angry. I've never heard him talk like that before. "I told you all to stay away from my family!"

"Is everything all right here?" someone asks from behind us. It's Finnick Odair, and he's glancing back and forth between me, Cinna, and Abel quizzically.

I wave both of them off irritatedly. "Yeah, yeah, everything's perfectly fine!" I say. "Let me go! Let me—" I twist my hand free from Cinna with a grunt and I catch up to where the two men in suits have dragged Abel over by the door. By this time, most of the party guests have looked our way in either concern or amusement.

"I'm sorry, sir, you have to leave immediately," I overhear one of the men say to Abel. "We have strict orders concerning this party's attendance. For the guests' safety, we can't allow in uninvited people."

Abel starts to protest, saying he only needs a moment to speak to someone, but neither of the men pay him any attention. They open the doors and take him out. Quickly, I slip out after them.

"He's with me!" I announce suddenly. My voice echoes through the quiet hall, and the two guards glance at me surprisedly. "He's my friend, let him go," I say in a quieter voice.

The same man who had spoken to Abel frowned. "I'm sorry, miss. You're only accompanying a guest at this event, so you have no right to take anyone to this party. And in any case, your friend is not properly dressed. He's not allowed in here."

"Fine," I snap. "I'll leave. We'll leave."

We let the men escort us out, and once we've passed through the outer gates, Abel takes me by surprise with a massive hug. He whispers something in a tone so heartbroken, I don't know what to do. And I think what he said was: "I thought you were dead."

He holds me for the longest of time, stroking my hair, breathing me in. I let him, but I don't understand, because even though I miss him and I'm terribly glad he's still alive, it seems just a little overkill. And mostly, I don't understand what he means about my being dead. I mean, why would I be dead? I'd be more worried about him and our friends in the Alliance.

"Abel?" I say. "What's wrong? Are you in trouble? What—"

"I have to get you out of here before they find you," he suddenly tells me, as if he just remembered something. He pulls away from the hug, grabbing me by the wrist. He drags me after him so quickly that I have to sprint just to keep up with him. My long dress and high heels don't offer a lot of help, either.

"They?" I echo. "Abel, who are they? And where have you come from? Abel, answer me!" I refuse to go any further without an explanation, and I tug at him with all my might until he comes to a reluctant stop. "What's happening, Abel? Tell me!" I demand.

"There's no time!" he says frustratedly. "We have to go now, or else we'll get left behind. Come on!" He tries tugging at my wrist again, but when he sees it's not working, he puts a hand behind my back and urges me forward.

"Left behind by who? You're not making it easier! Just tell me flat out what's happening and I'll run with you anywhere you like without resisting!"

Thankfully, he does stop pushing me forward, but he looks irritated. He's about to tell me something when his eyes widen at something behind me. I glance back and catch a glimpse lights—headlights. As the car zips closer, I recogize the plate number and the automobile. It comes to a halt right next to us, and a window rolls down.

"Get in!" Cinna calls out.

Abel doesn't question this. He pulls the door open and gestures for me to hurry inside. As soon as the door closes behind him, Cinna steps on the gas and we're off. Nobody says a word for a good minute. Abel reaches for my hand and grasps it tightly.

"I recognize you," says Cinna finally, looking through the car mirror at Abel. The look on his face is grave. "You're one of them, aren't you? I told Levi not to get wrapped into this—this trouble. Look where he is now! In his grave. I can't believe it."

Abel blinks, confused. "You recognize me? I don't even know you."

Cinna hits the brake and suddenly looks back at us. He stares at Abel intently, and then he reluctantly says, "Yeah, you don't. I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else. It's just… the lighting in this car, and your skin tone. I thought you were… never mind."

"Thought he was who?" I cut in. Neither of them pay me any attention.

"Listen," Abel continues to Cinna. "Skye is your cousin, and you care about her, I understand that. You don't want anyone to hurt her, and I don't, either. We're in trouble. Skye doesn't know it, but she's in trouble, too. If you'd like for her to live, you will do as I say without question. Do you understand?"

Cinna's mouth gapes open. "I can't believe it, you're one of them after all!"

"So is Skye," Abel says. Vaguely, I realize Cinna means _them _as in, the Alliance. My mouth gapes, and I wonder how much he knows about it. "Now, drive! Or you die with us, too!"

Cinna looks like he wants to say more, but Abel reaches out and clasps his shoulder. "Please," Abel begs, his voice strained. "Drive us to the clearance just past the woods by the East Lake. If you can get us there in ten minutes, we just might live."

There's a second of hesitation. You could hear a pin drop in the silence. I hold my breath, confused but able to grasp the fact that my life is on the line here. Although, why? I don't quite know.

Finally Cinna sighs. "Seatbelts on," he orders, and I strap myself in just as he says. "East Lake is a good few miles from here. I can get you there in fifteen minutes, no less. Will it be enough?"

Abel's expression is grave as he puts on his seatbelt. "It will have to be."

The car lurches forward and we never stop. Occasionally, Cinna swerves left and right to avoid passersby and other cars, and I dig my fingers into the dark leather upholstery, feeling as if the seatbelt has not accomplished its job. As if sensing my instability, Abel encircles an arm around me and it feels so much better. My mind clears, and I have enough sense to listen to what he's saying.

"We have fifteen minutes," he says. "I'll try to explain this to you as clearly as I can, Skye, but no questions until I'm done and you will have to listen closely. Got it?"

For some reason, his straightforwardness and no-nonsense attitude takes me by surprise and somehow reminds me of Hector. My heart drops. It feels like I've lost a friend and gained yet another supervisor, but I still nod my head at him and perk my ears.

According to Abel, District 13 was an absolute mess. The citizens were plagued with some sort of disease, and it didn't help that the entire district was underground. The malady was breeding like cockroaches under a rock there—those are Abel's exact words. The recruits from the Alliance managed to help out a little, but their biggest hope was to convince the president of District 13, President Alma Coin, to allow her citizens above ground to wait for the disease to abate in fresh air instead of letting it do a full cycle on every Thirteener underground. She wouldn't allow it initially, but District 13's population was dwindling down so quickly that she reluctantly agreed.

The plan was to separate the affected from the unaffected—those who were plagued greatly by the disease were to go above ground, while those who were unaffected or those who showed only the least of symptoms could stay under. It took a lot of willpower, manpower, and cooperation to herd all the affected citizens above ground, but the Alliance agents did a good job and eventually got it done.

Above ground, the Alliance agents set up tents to treat the citizens. It was going great the first few hours—it seemed like curing them was possible. But then something terrible happened—our spy pulled through.

The spy apparently had this all planned—even suggested the bringing out of the Thirteeners herself—for the benefit of the Capitol. Yesterday at twelve midnight, a bomb plagued the makeshift hospital above ground, taking out almost every citizen and even some Alliance members. Thankfully, it wasn't atomic, or else it would've claimed so many more lives.

13 was able to pull together again, but any pretense of subtlety was quickly abandoned. The Capitol knew about the Alliance now—it knew about it completely. And, thanks to the spy, they also had access to every document of every agent in it. They started arresting working agents and retired agents alike yesterday and tonight. Nobody knows what happened to them, but Peacekeeper Lively supposes they were either captured or fortunately killed. The remaining Alliance team from District 13 travelled back to the Capitol under hot pursuit, gathering what was left of the Alliance here at home to take back to District 13 where they would be safe.

Well, not entirely safe. But maybe safer.

"I thought you were dead," Abel says again, but this time with less heartbreak. "I went straight for your home, but then I found out from your parents that you'd moved out because you turned eighteen. They gave me your new address and I made it there, but your house was a mess." Abel shakes his head, as if to clear a bad mental picture. "I thought they got to you, captured you, and you thrashed around and knocked almost everything down in your house."

I breathe for the first time since Abel started his story. I realize that if I had stayed home tonight instead coming to the party with Cinna, I would have been dead. Or worse—turned into an Avox. The realization dawns upon all of us in silence.

"This is stupid," Cinna eventually says when he gathers himself. "Skye, I thought you shared everything with me. Why didn't you tell me you had a hand at this?"

"I didn't!" I protest. "I joined the Alliance and then I quit it just as quickly. I haven't had contact with them in a little over a month!"

"Then why are you going along with this?" Cinna says irritatedly. "If you had nothing to do with it, then you can reason with the authorities—tell them there must be some mistake."

Abel shake his head. "That wouldn't do. The authorities, as you call them, are the same people who send twenty-four kids into an arena for slaughtering every year. Do you expect them to listen to an explanation? Besides, it doesn't even matter. Skye was part of the Alliance, for however long or short a time it might have been. And, what's more, her brother was part of it for seven years." He pauses, takes a breath. "They're convicts—we're convicts."

With a deadly fire that I've never seen in his eyes before, Cinna opens his mouth to argue, but Abel interrupts him. "We're here!" he cries. "Stop the car!"

Resigned, Cinna complies, but with a look of bitterness across his face. The car swerves right as it comes to a sudden break. The movement tosses me hard against the window, and to my great dismay, my eyes behold the horrific scene before me.

The Alliance has deteriorated into rubble and ashes. The building aboveground has been totally destroyed, and a large hole filled with destroyed weapons, smashed concrete, and dead bodies gapes in the middle of the plain. Debris is spread throughout the entire expanse of the clearing, flames sprouting here and there, water being frantically thrown around to prevent a forest fire that is already starting. Everything about it is just so hopeless.

Above all the chaos, I realize that Abel has left the car and is proceeding to open my door. But just as he gets there, Cinna clicks a button for the lock and turns to look at me with an expression so enraged, I completely forget about everything else. It's just me and him now.

"What do you intend to do about this?" he says, anger embedded in his tone.

My throat tightens as I try to find the words to say. "I—I can't just leave Abel," I choke out. "I did it last month. I left him to deal with the Alliance alone. He could've left me, too, but he didn't. He came back for me. That's not something I can ignore."

The anger on Cinna's face gives way for hurt. He gazes at me affectionately with so much pain that it's heartbreaking. "I'm not going to force you to stay," he says dejectedly. "If you feel you have to go—and I sense that you do—then you can go."

"Thank you, Cinna!" I yelp, choking on tears as I glance at the foolproof window which Abel is trying to break with his fist. I fumble with the lock on the door, but Cinna calls for my attention. Reluctantly, I glance at him, at his handsome face made solemn by the mood and the firelight gleaming against his features. I hold my breath and listen to what he has to say, because a part of me feels like it will be the last time I will ever hear from him even if I do manage to survive this.

"Just remember, Skye," he says pallidly, avoiding my gaze. "If you ever feel like coming back… don't. Levi might've survived if he hadn't come back, but he still did—for you, because he loved you. But you don't have anyone you care for in the Capitol," he pauses, looking me straight in the eye.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, but as I stare into Cinna's, I realize there's next to nothing in there. Just a thin strand of hope left—me, the last bit of his soul. And I'm abandoning him. I try to convince myself that it's for his own good, but I still feel like dirt. His last words wrench my heart.

"You don't need me."


	23. Dark Fog

**Author's Note. **Hi everyone! I'm back again. I'm sorry that it took so long for me to get this posted. I was busy with school, as I was graduating, and I hope you all understand. Not to brag, but... well, okay, maybe it is to brag. But anyway, I graduated high school last week with highest honors! It was a huge privilege and I had a great time at the Banquet. I'm moving out for college in June, which is why I plan to finish this story before my summer ends.

This is one of the last couple of chapters. Brace yourselves. It's going to be a rocky ride. This chapter will be, in my opinion, the goriest I have ever written for this story. It isn't for everyone, but it's not too graphic, I promise. But still: Proceed with caution. You have been warned.

Also, I didn't have time to proofread, because it's dawn where I'm at now and I stayed up most of the night to write this because I'm busy tomorrow, and I want to have this up as soon as possible. Go easy on the mistakes if there are any :)

**This chapter is dedicated to all my highschool friends. I miss you already like Skye misses Abel.**

* * *

Have you ever lived a second, and, in that second, lived a million? I have. Many times. The first time Abel ever talked to me the first day of our Junior Fieldtrip. At the river in the arena where I almost drowned to death. A couple of days after Levi died. Earlier when Abel bumped squarely into me. And now, at the Alliance—or at least, where it used to be.

I only have one second to take in my surroundings the moment I step out of Cinna's car, but it's enough. In that second, I see everything. The fires that are sprouting here and there, the bruised and bloody men and women scattered along the plain—dead, or almost dead, the Capitol hovercrafts flying overhead, dropping bombs that kill by the dozens. And the guns. I hear them before I see them, but when I do, I realize that everyone standing is armed with one. Including Abel.

He reaches behind his back with his right hand, lifting his shirt slightly to retrieve a small pistol he has hidden underneath. The moment I see the weapon and how readily Abel grips it, I am taken aback. I never knew Abel to be violent, and although now the only way to survive the Capitol's siege is to be just that, I am frightened. Of who Abel has become, of _what_ Abel has become.

Without warning, he clasps onto my wrist with his free hand and drags me up to a sprint. Abel runs so quickly that I struggle to keep up. I try to look over my shoulder at Cinna's car, but by the time I finally do, it is long gone.

Abel shouts something over the bedlam, but I can't hear him.

"What?" I yell back.

He looks over his shoulder this time. The movement of his lips helps me understand. "Keep your head down!" is what he was saying.

Obediently, I crouch down low, mimicking Abel's stance and his speed. It's difficult keeping pace with him as he tears through the field, and chilling, too, as he shoots his gun at various people—assumably Peacekeepers—who drop either dead or badly wounded. At some point, Abel pauses briefly, throwing away his empty pistol in exchange for a breech-loading firearm from a dead Peacekeeper. In the process, he is shot near the left shoulder. I scream, taking cover quickly as Abel advices. With a grunt of pain, he glances quickly at his wound before raising his gun to shoot the offender dead.

The Peacekeeper lands on his back, bloody, his skull open to see. I shiver and look toward Abel for distraction, but as I do, I find myself rooted to the ground with fear. Blood trickles down from the wound on his left shoulder, close to his heart, and it frightens me.

"It's nothing!" he says over the noise. "Just a flesh wound. I've had worse. Come on!" _I've had worse. _I wonder, what has he experienced in the months he's been away? The thought of all the possibilities sends a chill down my spine.

With a hand pushing my back, Abel manages to get me moving again. And then we're off. Since Abel needs two of his hands to shoot the Peacekeeper's gun, and since he can't drag me with his left hand because of his injury, my wrist is free and I can run on my own accord. And thankfully, too, because my limb felt like it was about to dislocate.

It's still hard work though, keeping up with Abel, and by the time we stop behind a slab of concrete for a short rest, I'm out of breath. I slump against the bulwark, exhausted, while Abel checks his wounds and the gun's barrel for ammunition. He swears under his breath.

"What?" I ask, afraid that his wound is deadlier than he thinks.

But it isn't his wound he's worried about. "I have two shells left," he sighs. "That isn't enough to get us across."

My eyelids roll over my eyes. I take a deep breathe and let it out as a sigh before opening my eyes again. "Where are we going, anyway?" I ask. "Maybe we can stay right here until the fighting wears out."

He shakes his head. "We can't," he says miserably over the gunfire. "A hovercraft will come from District Thirteen to pick the survivors up in about"—he glances at his watch—"fifteen minutes. We have to be beyond this clearing and down at the lake a few meters into the woods."

Suddenly, I see the hopelessness of the situation. Fifteen minutes isn't enough time for this fight to wear out. And even if it were, it would probably wear out to the Capitol's favor. As if all that isn't enough, the fire's spreading fast, too. If we're not across the clearing in ten minutes, we'll be scorched dead.

The both of us sit there, catching our breaths. Out of frustration, I snap the heels off of both my shoes and I rip the hem of my dress so it falls on my knees instead of my ankles. At least I can run faster now if it comes down to just that, but a part of me regrets destroying this beautiful piece, simple cloth in the hands of an ordinary person like myself, but art in the hands of Cinna. To distract myself, I wish to God—or whoever's out there—for a solution to our dilemma. A few seconds later, I almost regret doing that, because the solution comes in a human form of my least favorite.

"Nice dress, Princess."

That mocking tone, that husky, chain-smoker's voice. The moment I hear it, I almost groan.

I glance over to my left, where Eris has hidden herself behind another slab of concrete next to ours. She barely looks like herself anymore—her hair has been cropped up close to her skull, and I take it they don't have hairdye in District 13, because her natural hair color threatens to come out from the roots, an auburn red against the artificial black. She reloads her rifle and looks up at us. Then—only then—do I realize the one integral part of Eris that is missing: her eyes. Well, no, not her eyes. Just the stars that were her pupils. District 13 probably didn't approve of contact lenses.

Eris notices my gawking and scowls. "What are _you _looking at?"

"Nothing," I say, shaking my head and trying not to stare, but it's really hard when I've just realized that, without all the alterations, Eris is actually pretty. Even with the buzz cut.

"Where are the others, Eris?" Abel yells over the noise, bringing me back to the problem at hand.

Eris pops up over the edge of the bulwark, quickly shoots a Peacekeeper dead, and then falls back down under the shield. "Rita is at the river already. All the badly injured are there and she's tending to them. Trying to keep them alive until the hovercraft comes," she says, wiping sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. "The rest are around, holding the Peaces back."

"Who's injured?" I ask urgently.

Eris looks almost annoyed to be answering to me, but nonetheless, she says, "A lot of common agents. I don't even know them all by name. Darius is there; he's got a gaping hole in his neck, but he's alright. Travis got shot in the leg three times. Oakley lost a lot of blood when a Peace stabbed him. He's half dead." As matter-of-factly as Eris attempts to say that last line, I hear a quiver in her voice and I know she's worried, at least a little bit.

I would be worried about Oakley, too, but right now I'm too preoccupied with trying to keep myself alive.

Eris rises to shoot again, but just as she does, an enemy bullet comes to meet her. Thankfully, she's quick and ducks for cover, swearing like a fiend. And I think that may be because she _is_ a fiend.

She recovers from her surprise and does a double-take at us. "You're still here?" she yells. "We're losing time, you grunts! Get down at the river! The rest of us'll cover for you!"

"We can't," Abel says. "I have barely have any more ammo left. You got a spare?"

Looking as pissed off as usually, Eris rolls her eyes and reaches for her extra guns. She slides two pistols across the ground to Abel, who takes them gratefully, one in each hand. Then she tosses four cartridges at me, which I then pass on to Abel.

He checks the guns with a pleased expression. "Thanks, this will do," he says, cocking one and getting up slightly. He begins to tuck the spare gun behind his back when Eris stops him.

She nods in my direction. "Give the other to her."

Abel isn't all for the idea of handing me the gun—I can tell by the look of uncertainty on his face—and although the fear rises up in me as well, I decide to swallow it down for once. I need to help him. So I put my hand out, palm up, asking for the firearm.

Hesitantly, Abel passes it to me. "Do you know how to work it?" There's a hint of concern in his voice, and there, I see the old Abel resurfacing. The one who actually cares. The one I like. The one who is my friend, not a soldier. But right now, he is both, and I don't know where I stand about this.

I shake my head for a no and he quickly teaches me how to load and unload the cartridges, cock the gun, and fire. It's an easy challenge, and within seconds, I've got it.

"I'm ready," I say. "Let's not lose anymore time."

And we don't. Immediately, Abel and I get up, abandon the Peacekeeper's gun, say a quick goodbye to Eris—who only grunts in response, busy shooting Peacekeepers—and sprint off across the field. Since we're back to the one-hand pistols, Abel reaches for my free hand. But I'm surprised when, instead of gripping my wrist, he interlaces our fingers, taking a quick moment to toss a smile at me over his shoulder.

We run, just like we did earlier, only now it is different for me, because I am no longer unarmed. Maybe it would be rational that I feel better that I have a weapon to defend myself with, but the truth is, I am even more afraid. Because now, I'm not just in the fight against the Capitol. I _am _fighting against the Capitol.

At first, I don't shoot. I don't shoot and I leave it all to Abel, but after a while, I realize how difficult it is becoming. The Peacekeepers seem to be multiplying, two for each Alliance agent in the area, and suddenly, a group of four Peaces slides into view in front of us, opening fire. Abel pulls me close against him behind a tree for cover, so close that I feel his breath against the back of my neck, one arm encircling my waist. Perhaps if my life weren't at stake right now, I would be blushing. But all I can think about is how, because I am closer to the bend of the tree, I should be shooting.

Shakily and quickly, I peek behind the tree and immediately pull back, a spray of bullets passing right where my head was just a second ago. I take a deep breath and try again, pointing the gun before peek, and it works. I have shot one Peacekeeper at the leg—and I wince when I do—which hampers him long enough that I can aim and shoot at his head.

I don't miss. It's not a pretty sight, and I'm disgusted with myself because I am relieved to see it.

I almost decide to stop shooting, but the need to survive causes an animal instinct to take over, locking all human feelings in a chamber deep inside of me. Suddenly I know every weak spot in the Peacekeepers' bodies, and my bullets seek them out. Within seconds, all but one of them are dead. The last one lies flat on his back. I shot him unintentionally at the heart, which is a cruel place to aim because even when a bullet is lodged in it, the human brain is alive and registers pain.

"Good job," Abel says, but there's no joy in his tone. It is grim as the scene before us.

Before we make it the rest of the way to the shelter of the woods, Abel shoots the last Peacekeeper in the head with a whisper of an apology to end his misery.

* * *

The fighting doesn't continue beyond the edge of the woods, and as soon as we enter the shade of its trees, we're safe. Or at least, safer than we were out there.

We run for a few seconds before the river comes into sight. I almost give a whoop of victory, until I notice how much pain Abel is in. For the first time since the adrenaline rush kept me occupied, I give him a good look. He's pale as a sheet, left arm slick with blood. He pants more heavily than he had earlier. But he said it was just a flesh wound.

"Are—you—al—right?" I ask between pants.

He just nods, as if speaking requires too much of the energy he is saving to get to the river, trying to mask his pain with indifference, but I know him too well to be fooled. He seems to be alright, though, and I don't want to bother his quiet concentration, so we run in silence.

As soon as we arrive at the river, a scene more horrific than the battlefield comes into vision. The deadtoll is just the same, the blood less in quantity here, but what makes it worse is the fact that I know these people—not all of them, and not all by name, but I know them all the same. They lay in pools of blood around the banks of the river, waiting for the hovercraft that can save my life, but not theirs.

Rita flits about the makeshift hospital, giving orders to some other recruits. Rita has changed as well, but not as greatly as most; although her hair is still bright pink, it is cropped—like Eris's—close to her skull. But she still moves as gracefully as she did before, only now her movements are seasoned with a touch of authority.

The moment she glances at us, she does a double-take—particularly at me—before yelping with a mix of sadness and happiness. She runs toward us and tackles me in a hug, telling me how much she's missed me, and I tell her how much _I've_ missed _her_. She apologizes, with tears trickling down her cheeks, that she wasn't able to come to Levi's funeral. And it really looks like she's sorry. We're preoccupied with each other until we notice that Abel now kneels on the ground, bent over, blood from his arm running down to paint the grass red.

"Abel!" I gasp, kneeling beside him, peering at his face. In the shadow of the night, the pain that contorts his handsome features appears grimmer.

"Abel?" Rita ventures. I glance up at her, see her gaze flicker at his left arm, and see the worry that is in her eyes. I know what she's thinking before she even says it. "Where did he get shot?"

"Somewhere below his left shoulder, I don't know!" I say, panicking. "He said it was just a flesh wound, that he'd had worse, so we went on."

Rita drops to her knees, fingers fast on Abel's pulse points. "How long ago was he wounded?" she asks.

I struggle to remember, panic filling my thoughts. "I—I don't know. Fifteen minutes?"

Abel suddenly collapses on the ground the same time that the promised hovercraft from District 13 lands further down the bank of the river. Rita quickly turns him over on his back and rips his shirt off. She gasps as she beholds his wound.

I don't remember everything that happens next by detail, because I am staring at Abel's motionless features, his bare chest that only rises and falls ever so slightly. Rita calls a group of her helpers to her side. They do many things—apply pressure to Abel's shoulder, check his pulse, breathe into him. They say many things, too. Something about his subclavian artery, something about losing a lot of blood, something about death.

At some point, I cry. And I scream. And I clasp Abel's jaw in both my hands. At some point, someone takes me from behind. At some point, someone tries to calm me, but at some point, it doesn't work. At some point, I decide I have lost too many people that I love. At some point, they take me into the hovercraft where I don't want to go—not without Abel, not without him alive—and, at some point, a needle punctures my skin.

At some point, I lose control and submit myself to the dark fog that folds over my consciousness.


End file.
